Keep Dreaming, America
by worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: AU – Director Francis Bonnefoy and screenwriter Arthur Kirkland scour Hollywood looking to cast America's boy-next-door. Actor Alfred F. Jones fits the criteria. Perhaps too well: Arthur finds his cynicism challenged by something new entirely. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Hey u gaiz. So I'm feeling a bit foolish.

Remember when I said I wouldn't write fanfic in English?

SO GUESS WUT. I LIED. D:

But don't get used to it. This is only because I had this super-duper-enormous-awesome idea that I've been sitting on forever and just couldn't resist anymore.** I am most certainly not going to stop writing foreign-language fics** (although I may be translating my still-to-be-published Spanish-language USUK extravaganza _Una Historia en tus Brazos, _'A History in your Arms' for us in the Anglo world) and this won't become a regular thing. I may write a GerIta one-shot derived from the phenomenal German writer Gunter Grass' breathtaking novel _The Tin Drum _(read it, it's a surreal experience) but otherwise,** this really may not happen again**.

However, this story will be pretty long - I plan on** ten chapters and an epilogue**. Also, we get lots of other characters. Francis and Elizaveta are pivotal to the story, and Antonio, Romano, Gilbert, Roderich and possibly Feliciano will all make repeat appearances. And best of all, MATTHEW IS A HIPSTER, because I happen to have a huge thing for suddenly-badass-Canada. Such as when he smokes marijuana or chugs maple syrup spiked with rum. Yes, I have seen both of these scenarios, and it's hot. So there.

THERE WILL ALSO BE LOTS OF SEXYTIEMS. LOTS. LOTS AND LOTS. And possibly-illegal loads of fluff. SO THIS SHOULD BE FUN.

Also, I do indeed speak Spanish, French and Italian – each to a different extent, but yes, all three, so when the characters use them, it is entirely legit. I am not some google-translate happy fangirl. As a linguist I daresay that is frankly disgusting.

**Very Important** – This story is just ever-so-slightly post-modern day, where America's hold as the lone superpower is fast crumbling (as I suspect it will). This means Hollywood's grip is crumbling too, as is exhibited by Arthur's referring towards the end of the chapter to 'the last Oscar's ceremony ever held'. An interesting idea. Also, there is a lot of my own political commentary in here, even if you don't squint. I am an American and I love America but I am not beyond criticizing her (or…him). This fic deals as much with the antique idea of the American Dream and how America is beginning to fade as a superpower as it does with the SUPER-DUPER-GAYNESS between our beloved Arthur and Alfred. I sincerely hope you enjoy or at least appreciate my poorly-concealed opinion when it glares at you from behind the innocent thoughts and actions of our two heroes.

**Updates - **The second chapter will be up in the next couple of days, but otherwise, updates should be about weekly - until school starts. T_T But trust that I will not leave this unfinished. That is a crime beyond imagination. xD

Oh. And I really know nothing about film. I don't even like it very much. So sorry for any inaccuracies.

Ahem. Sorry for the horrendously long author's notage.

Enjoy, and I definitely want to hear your opinion so REVIEW!

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><p>Only a country as frivolous as America could possibly run out of stereotypical Americans.<p>

This, Arthur considered, could perhaps be easily explained. Perhaps the incessant squabbling in Washington was finally reaching the ears of her citizens, or perhaps the wearying second stumble of capitalism had finally started to ache not only in their cupboards and their mortgages but in their muscles and bones and lungs. The Golden Arches had certainly begun to gleam a little less brightly.

Then again, perhaps Arthur was giving too much merit to politics and economics; the United States had always been a country prone to obeying, often without question, the more foolish whims of the heart, after all. Therefore perhaps it had finally begun to dawn upon Americans that the gold-spun dream that they had been blindly following for the past near-century was long-since exhausted, had been lost bit by bit beginning in the humid jungles of Cuba and Vietnam, then the rubble of Ground Zero, the wastelands of the Middle East, now fading entirely into the soaring unemployment rates and the catfights in the White House, losing its pure brilliant color (nowadays existent in little more than an imagined glitter from the pavement of the streets or the ghost of the pursuit of happiness mocking from the confines of the broken-down rungs of an old white picket fence) in favor of the confused but eventually acceptable and even comforting hue of reality.

Most likely, however, Arthur thought as he accepted a cigarette from Francis and lit up tiredly, they were simply weighed down by the beginnings of the realization that their Golden Age was fading, that the superstructure of power and wealth and fast food and pop music and most importantly of all, of course, or at least in Arthur's opinion, that fantastic empire of _cinema, _that had sheltered them so well in the past was beginning to shake on its foundations, and while it may not crumble (there was strength and spirit in America yet) it was certainly going to shrink, and that they would greatly feel the discomfort brought on by the new accommodations.

Whichever way it was, Arthur was irritated. He had written the script, the script was good (Arthur wasn't like other artists but rather an honest cynic and knew very well when his work was good) but it couldn't be great, not without the right voice and presence behind it, and what else could have brought them back to the tumbling-down empire of Hollywood but that?

_That_ being blue eyes, blonde hair, a smile that could be described colloquially as 'worth-a-million-bucks', an accent that would make Arthur's stomach turn, and of course, a sense of pride so indomitable it was more akin to blindness.

_That _should have been easy to find; they didn't even necessarily require that the qualities be paired with talent seeing as Arthur had scripted the character as clumsy anyways. And yet, much in accordance with everything the damn place had done as of late, America had yielded nothing.

His cigarette was little more than a stub now; Arthur exhaled a final cloud of smoke and dropped it, pressing it into the pavement with the toe of his shoe.

"Perhaps we should go to New York instead," Francis was musing, "scrounge the streets of the Big Apple to find Arthur's perfect little Alfred Jones." He absentmindedly formed a smoke ring with his lips as Arthur shook his head and furrowed his brow at the sidewalk.

"You know as well as I that we won't find the right Alfred there. The character – he's not a New York type. If we were really devoted we'd -"

"It seems we won't find what we're looking for anywhere," snapped Elizaveta. She was leaning up against the wall of the studio on the other side of Francis, her arms crossed just below her breasts. There was a pronounced crease between her pretty eyebrows but she waved away the cigarette Francis offered her.

"I thought America would never run out of good-looking boys…" Francis said this so forlornly that Arthur and Elizaveta had to snicker, though their expressions quickly faded back into frustration.

"It's not that they're not necessarily good-looking, they're just not _Alfred_," Arthur sighed. "Not like I see him, anyways."

"Mm, and how is that, _mon ami?" _

"I must have told you a hundred times, you're the director after all, how could I not have? And don't speak in French; you know I don't like it."

"Forgive me," said through a smoke ring, "and do refresh my memory."

Arthur sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, turning his face towards the sky. Thin threads of cloud wove their way through the otherwise fragile blue.

"He's a little too tall for himself, first of all. A bit of a mess, all arms and legs. No grace. Big hands," he added, at which Francis snorted, choked on his own cigarette smoke, and had to be struck on the back several times by Elizaveta. When he was recovered, Arthur shot him a glare and continued.

"_As_ I was saying, Alfred is tall, and tan, and most certainly strong, but in the fashion that comes from working on his daddy's farm or something ridiculous like that, perhaps a cow ranch! ha! but most definitely _not_ from a salon or a gym – that's not entirely fitting with antique American ideals, after all. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, of course, and a very white straight smile - that is indispensible; it puts men at ease and makes girls wobble a bit in their high heels, although of course Alfred has to look as though he would only pursue girls who wore sensible shoes," Arthur tapped his chin. "If he were cleaned up and standing still, the only way I can think of to describe the kind of handsome he would be is devastating – devastatingly handsome. Weak at the knees. Mouth dry. Heart racing. Devastating. That load of shit."

Arthur gestured to the sky with his hands to indicate that he was quite finished.

"You've certainly thought this through," said Elizaveta after a while. She had finally broken down and was accepting a light from Francis, speaking around the cigarette balanced between her lips.

"Of course I have. I'm the best screenwriter the world has ever seen."

"Will have ever seen," Francis corrected.

"That was implied. We still have to find what we're looking for. Then I'll be the best screenwriter the world has ever seen."

"And I'll be the best director."

"And I, the greatest actress." A long stream of smoke accompanied Elizaveta's words.

Arthur smirked.

"And thus we repeat the words indubitably spoken by millions of soon-to-be failures as they smoked against the walls of this very studio."

"Aha, but Arthur, my dear cynic," Francis waggled a finger at him. "Perhaps you are right – but don't forget the handful of successes."

* * *

><p>Tall. Wasn't that the first thing Arthur had required? Yes, tall, a little too tall to handle – all limbs, if he recalled correctly. A great, clumsy, stumbling thing. An overgrown child clobbering around in his father's shoes only to find that where they were once oversized, comically so, they were now much too small and pinched his toes and caused him to walk with an awkward gait when he wasn't tripping. Arthur smiled around the edge of his glass. Indeed, good-natured chaos was endearing. Perhaps this was why the world had enjoyed America.<p>

So was it the alcohol that was conjuring up what he was seeing? Arthur consulted his mental list again. What was next? Ah yes, that which Francis found so hilarious – large hands. As if on queue, the boy at almost knocked over the cosmopolitan belonging to the lady next to him at the bar. He laughed, and shrugged – she was beautiful and Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he was interested in her – and made his clean white button-down shift over his shoulders and the tops of his arms and reveal a glimpse of a well-defined collarbone, an action which, to Arthur's well-trained eye, immediately revealed a subtle but obviously deep-set tan and a softly defined structure of muscles.

Arthur took a pensive sip of his gin and tonic and ignored Francis' jabbing him in the arm with a cocktail stirrer (indicating that the idiot had noticed the boy's presence at the bar as well) in favor of continuing to card through his mental criteria for Alfred Jones.

Blonde hair. That much was obvious. It was thick and not too light and he wore it combed mostly across one temple, and although a tuft of hair stuck up, unruly, from where he had parted it, this irregularity seemed to only add to his boyish charm. Alright then. Check.

The glasses were a bit of a setback – Arthur couldn't determine the color of his eyes behind the sheen of the lenses but, he reasoned, he could always force contacts on him. And his smile was flawless, clean and straight and white, cutting through the extra baby fat that still clung to his cheeks unhindered and really, altogether, he looked entirely foolish when he grinned like that but it was also entirely endearing, and the woman who received the expression was far from immune – she giggled and Arthur caught her twirling a strand of her hair around her finger and caught _himself _wondering if young girls in a movie theatre would exhibit the same reaction looking up at that smile on the screen.

Well. Again. Check. Anything else? Oh yes. That devastation thing. Arthur wished the boy would stop making excessively wide hand gestures or tapping his glass and just be still for a damn moment so he could successfully say they had found their star, but then again, he reminded himself, although this bar was one of the best places in the city to come and rub elbows with other people in the movie business, perhaps this boy wasn't even an actor, just the spoiled son of some big-time CEO (he couldn't be more than twenty) come to pick up women, or worse, a tourist of some sort. And even if he were an actor, he would still have to agree to be in their movie, and they weren't exactly a well-known or particularly wealthy trio…

And then Arthur somewhat lost his train of thought because the woman leaned over and whispered something in the boy's ear and he was _still _finally, finally, still! and she must have been saying something promiscuous because there was a faint blush on his cheeks and Arthur's knees didn't exactly buckle because he was perched high on a stool and had some semblance of pride but _that boy…_and the way his face was turned the lamps didn't focus on his glasses and behind the frames his eyes were endlessly blue and Arthur was suddenly terrified that the woman would drag him away from them and they would never be able to make their movie and _then where would Arthur be? _but when he frantically glanced to his side to garner help from Francis he saw the stool empty and realized Francis, ever the opportunist, was already on the other side of the bar, tapping the boy on the arm and saying something quietly and then the boy was nodding, he was _saying goodbye to that beautiful woman_ and Francis was leading him over, back to their table, and Arthur desperately wished he had refrained from that second gin and tonic.

Elizaveta, seated at Arthur's left, grinned wildly at him, as if to say '_this is it!' _and finished off the dregs of her Long Island iced tea. He grimaced. They hadn't come here to scout for talent; they had come here to get plastered. But really, Arthur should have known. Americans were nothing if not surprises.

Francis pulled up a fourth chair and the boy sat down, resting his elbows on the surface of the table and leaning forwards slightly. Arthur immediately extended his hand and the boy took it.

"Arthur Kirkland, screenwriter," he said crisply, "immensely pleased to make your acquaintance."

Before the boy could reply, Elizaveta was introducing herself, grinning, batting her eyelashes and leaning forwards, presumably to shove up her breasts a little higher as if extra cleavage would convince the boy to sign a contract.

"You guys all speak with accents," he said rather blatantly. Francis laughed but Arthur was rather irritated.

"I might say the same to you," he snapped before remembering that they were preparing to beg the boy to join their team. "You'd sound as ridiculous as I do to you if you were stuck in the middle of Kensington."

The boy merely grinned. "I never said you sounded ridiculous. But, is that where you're from? Funny…I didn't think many foreign crews came to Hollywood anymore, except, that is, to mock it…" His eyes darkened. "Is that what you're here for?"

Francis shook his head. "Quite the opposite, _mon cher,_" He tapped the surface of the table with his cocktail stirrer. "We wish to commemorate the charm of the American dream before it…ah…becomes instinct entirely."

The boy blinked. "Really."

"You don't have to sound so doubtful, you know," winked Elizaveta.

"And where do I come in?"

Arthur felt his heart rate pick up. "Well…I daresay you're rather the spitting image of our hero. We've been scouring LA for weeks now looking for someone like you…and here you are."

"How do you know if I can act or not?"

"To be honest, at this point it doesn't really matter."

"Well, if that's the case…I'll have to think about it, of course."

Of course. That was only customary, but Arthur felt his heart sink nonetheless. This boy was a flawless canvas, together Arthur and Francis could paint Alfred's character onto him so beautifully, and Elizaveta would provide the perfect backdrop…his mind dared to venture that, if they were denied him, perhaps the movie was never meant to be.

But Arthur merely smiled. "Of course. Do you have a manager?"

"Yeah. Here," the boy fished around in his shirt pocket and withdrew a card. "Matthew Williams. Y'know, the indie director?"

Arthur nodded and accepted the card, intrigued.

"He's been trying to get me a start for a while now. His problem is he can't take anything too mainstream, y'know, but you might have a shot because you're all foreign and shit. He's my brother, so if I like the script I can try and butter him up."

Arthur blinked.

"Your – well," his surprised expression melted into a smirk. "I had no idea Hollywood had gotten to be such a family-friendly establishment."

"Hey." The boy quirked an eyebrow. "So says the super-duper-sugar-coated-best-friends-director-screenwriter-actress-trio."

Francis threw his head back and laughed, Elizaveta let a giggle slip out, and Arthur sighed.

"Touché."

The boy winked. "And of course, I have to like the role too. What's the hero's name, by the way? Oh, and in regards to organizing all this, do you think we can meet for lunch tomorrow to discuss? Be sure to bring all the paperwork necessary, including the script. Matt – er, my manager, will come too. Just tell me which studio you guys are signed at and I'll pick the place."

"We work at World Series Entertainment **a/n **- (xD u gaiz I'm liek so brilliant)," cut in Francis before Arthur could protest against the boy's excessively self-assured attitude in spite of the fact that it fit perfectly with the role they were hoping to cast him in, "and we'll be glad to bring all the paperwork. Ah, and who said, dear boy, that we plan to cast you as the hero?"

The boy's face fell abruptly serious. "I won't do anything else. I am a hero."

Francis quirked an eyebrow. "Then you'll be relieved to hear that the specifications of the American Dream call for you to provide us with a heroism of an almost sickening breed. In theory, you would play the persistently-hopeful, indomitably-cheerful and endearingly-confused boy-next-door type, whom our lovely Arthur has decided to dub Alfred Jones, an appellation which he claims to be in accordance with a set of old neighborhood stereotypes."

A grin suddenly across the boy's face at the mention of the name. "Alfred Jones, huh? I think that's a terrific name."

"Well, _mon cher, _I'm glad you like it."

A few minutes more of the customary civilities and the boy was waving and grinning to them as he began to turn back towards the bar, where, miraculously, the woman whose drink he had nearly toppled was still waiting for him. He truly was very, very handsome, Arthur supposed. The boy's back was fully turned to them when, in the midst of his thoughts, Arthur remembered something very important and nearly knocked over his own gin and tonic (now the third of the evening) to snag his fingers on the edge of the boy's sleeve. Elizaveta lunged forwards to successfully rescue his cocktail from harm and the boy turned, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

"We've been terribly rude," explained Arthur, releasing the edge of his sleeve. "Please forgive us. We never asked you - what exactly is your name?"

The boy suddenly grinned his widest of the evening, blue eyes sparkling down at them. Arthur felt his chest tighten slightly.

"Alfred," the boy smirked. "Alfred F. Jones."

* * *

><p>The morning saw Francis rendered incoherent by a hangover brought on by the more than several celebratory rounds they had enjoyed after their encounter at the bar. Elizaveta answered neither her cellphone nor the landline in her studio apartment, thus Arthur assumed the same for her. His friends never could hold their liquor. There was only one thing to do: as much as Arthur detested the stuff, he brewed a pot of strong coffee and drank several cups, (black, he might add) along with a generous helping of aspirin, in preparation to negotiate with the coincidentally-named Alfred and Matthew alone.<p>

He shaved, brushed his teeth several times, selected a nice blazer from his closet, gathered the paperwork and the script into a briefcase and left Francis groaning his dirge of _c'est dommage! c'est dommage! _on the couch of their shared apartment. Fortunately for the sake of his own rather substantial hangover, the sky was overcast, in fact faintly reminiscent of home, and he could rest his aching forehead against the cool glass of the bus window as the aspirin slowly began to take effect. He was Arthur Kirkland, soon-to-be recognized as the greatest screenwriter of all time, and a mere hangover certainly wouldn't defeat his realization of his artistic aspirations.

He was a bit late and Alfred was already standing in front of the gates of the studio when Arthur stepped down from the bus. It was evident by his clothing that they weren't going anywhere terribly fancy – he wore his dark blue jeans comfortably but not sloppily loose, and though he tucked his white shirt in and wore dress shoes he had completed the ensemble with a hoodie and stood with his hands thrust in the pockets, elbows extending to either side. Blue eyes bright behind the glasses. A grin on his face. In the clear light his hair was honey-colored, worn similarly but slightly messier, less crisply combed. Miraculously, that persistent tuft of hair still stood straight up from his part. Altogether he was still very handsome. Arthur was tempted to triumphantly paste an American flag on his forehead but opted instead to apologize for his tardiness. Alfred waved his hand dismissively.

"It's alright, dude. Hey, where are the others?"

"They're, ahm…" Arthur paused. "Well, they were rather hammered last night."

"Oh yeah," Alfred chuckled. "I saw you guys. _All _of you. You must have a pretty strong stomach."

"Possibly," Arthur smiled faintly, "or just a rather lot of practice."

Alfred guffawed and slung an arm briefly around Arthur's shoulders. He certainly wasn't very professional.

"Sorry that Matt – er, my manager," That made the second time he had made that mistake, Arthur noted, "isn't here yet, bro. He won't be for a while, actually…work or something," he shrugged. "So it'll be just you and me at first. Come on," he gestured for Arthur to follow. "The place isn't far away. You brought the script, right?"

Arthur tapped his briefcase in the affirmative and fell into step beside Alfred as they walked. Quickly Arthur discovered that the ability of the boy's mouth to produce seemingly-endless threads of nonsense was truly formidable – in between half-listening to a jumbled statement that managed to be both about the value of McDonalds to America's economy and Alfred's irritation that the McRib had not made a recent appearance, as, he might add, was _totally implied _by recent advertising campaigns, they found themselves stepping into a popular old-style diner, (smothered by vinyl and enamel and grease and sepia-tinted portraits of Elvis stunning a nation with a few thrusts of his hips and therefore classically American), and Arthur couldn't help but to smirk at the irony.

They sat down and Alfred ordered coffee and a burger. Thoroughly sick of coffee but still very much achy from his hangover, Arthur ordered several pancakes, which earned him a dubious glance from Alfred.

"Pancakes? That's hangover food."

Arthur blinked. Damn.

"It is most certainly not. P-perhaps in America, I'm not sure, but -"

Alfred smirked over the rim of his coffee mug. "Alright, then…if not for a hangover, which you _most certainly," _He imitated his accent with a wink, "do not have, pancakes, for lunch…it's kind of fairy food then, dontcha think?"

Arthur swallowed his tea much too abruptly and had to cough into a napkin before he flashed Alfred a watery grin that, if one squinted, could be construed as some sort of form of agreement. What the boy didn't know…well, he really was a perfect American.

Arthur pulled his briefcase onto the table as the waitress brought their food, handing Alfred a copy of the script and wincing as he immediately left fingerprints in ketchup across the front page. He ate with a disturbing speed and was soon fully immersed in his reading, which was fine because Arthur could now offer his full attention to his 'fairy food.

"So," said Alfred eventually, pushing up his glasses with one finger. Arthur looked up from his second pancake. "Essentially, I'm a naïve boy in the modern world searching for purpose. I don't know what my dreams are," he smiled faintly. "But my girlfriend –

"That's Elizaveta," added Arthur through a mouthful of pancake. Alfred nodded.

"My girlfriend knows what she wants. Of course she does, she's foreign after all. Real subtle there, Arthur," he winked. "So basically, we try to navigate the perils of high school together while gradually realizing just how crushing reality is. Lemme guess, at the end…" he thumbed one of the last pages of the script. "We gain some sort of small achievement, just enough to pacify to audience but not enough to ruin the message of the story…essentially, that the world is…" he seemed to search for the right word. "Desolate? I'm not entirely sure. I reckon that to just say 'the world sucks' doesn't really do it justice. 'Hopeless' is awfully similar to desolate and kinda…I dunno…teenage-emo cliché, which is something you're clearly trying to avoid. 'Poisoned' suggests a perpetrator, and I think you're saying that it's always been that way. Bad, I mean. Or not even bad…just sort of…what it is, which is maybe what we construe as bad because we're told so?" Alfred shrugged. "It's certainly a new perspective on a tried-and-true genre."

Arthur swallowed rather thickly. "Well…I've…you've…"

_**Well**__.__** I've**__ no idea of how to describe the world myself. __**You've**__ certainly proven yourself more perceptive than you appear. _

"So you're a cynic, huh?" Alfred grinned too suddenly and Arthur nearly choked. "That's cool. Matt's a cynic too. Speaking of which…there he is!" He waved excessively, and would have knocked over his own half-empty coffee had Arthur's hand not shot out to rescue it. "Yo! Matt! Bro! Over he-e-re!"

Arthur turned as a young man approached their table. He was very similar to Alfred in stature, but carried himself infinitely more carefully, didn't allow his height and his long arms and legs to overwhelm him. Everything about him looked as though Alfred had been softened: creamy skin, wavy pale blonde hair, narrow violet eyes behind glasses, gentle cheekbones and a slender mouth that didn't even curve into a smile when he shook Arthur's hand; his "pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams, etcetera etcetera," was received with only the slightest nod of the head. Matthew stood with hips thrust slightly forwards, drawing attention to his colorful tribal-print skinny jeans and v-neck shirt that, among other things, displayed a bicycle, a pair of lips open in either pain or ecstasy, and a polar bear. Upon closer inspection of his face Arthur noticed that he was evidently trying to grow a soul patch…_evidently, _he thought to himself with a glimmer of satisfaction,without success.

Matthew gestured for Alfred to move and sat down next to him, taking the script from his hand. Without lowering himself to the level of glancing at the menu, he ordered pancakes, upon which Arthur immediately inquired as to why Matthew was not being relentlessly mocked for ordering 'fairy food'. Alfred laughed.

"Matthew's a fairy and knows it," he grinned, nudging his brother, who was emptying the entire rest of the bottle of maple syrup onto his food. "For him it's just another part of avoiding the mainstream."

Alfred's smile, which had not been reduced in the least, caused Arthur to consider the idea that he had slightly misjudged the boy's views. He took a pensive sip of his tea; if that were true it would be entirely for the best. Alfred asked to see the legal documents and they were quiet while Matthew ate and scanned the script, presumably on the lookout for clichés and the evidently-unbearable crimes so often committed by the mainstream he tried so very hard to reject.

Finally, he put down the script and leaned back, picking up a toothpick and levying it between his teeth.

"My first question," he began, "is what a bunch of foreign directors are doing in Hollywood looking to make a movie about the American dream. My second question: why on Earth you decided to make a movie production trio in today's business atmosphere. And my third: why did you go mainstream with it?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do you perhaps have any questions that might actually be about the script?"

"No," Matthew said blatantly. "But I need these answered before I can approve of Alfie's going into business with you guys."

Arthur sighed. "Firstly, Francis and Elizaveta and I have been together since boarding school in Europe, and we went to film school together. They're my best friends, but more importantly, they're both nearly as talented as I - we're inseparable and we most definitely were _not_ going to let the business change that. We went _'mainstream'_ with it because of my personal belief that _Indie_ is a perversion of intellectualism –

"That's obviously on purpose," Matthew cut in. Alfred rolled his eyes. Undeterred, Arthur continued.

"…and we're hoping to win Hollywood's last Oscar. This year, you know. The final ceremony. How the mighty have fallen, eh?" He smirked. "I've left your first question for last because my answer is rather embarrassing, seeing as I'm English and such. To be honest, ever since I was a boy I've had something of a fascination with America and all that she stands for, however, exactly, one may choose to define it."

Matthew nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "So, Al, how do you like the role?"

Alfred beamed. "I'm totally up for it. Even though it's all about life sucking the hero is totally heroic so it's chill."

And there, Arthur thought tiredly, went that once shining glimpse of Alfred's actual intelligence. However, the boy was agreeing, and Arthur didn't very well care if he never heard another eloquent thing from that mouth as long as he could contract it into reading the lines it was so obviously born for.

Which could be possible if only Matthew would stop staring pensively at the grease stains decorating the far wall of the diner.

"Even though it's a bit mainstream," he finally said, "I feel it. So it's all good. Well then, Arthur, Al's your man. I hope you know what a lucky bitch you are."

Without further ado, Matthew Williams stood up and exited the building. Arthur blinked after him before turning his attention back to Alfred, who was grinning yet again.

"That's not the last you'll see of him," he told Arthur. "But he's going up north for a while now, so he'll be out of your hair for the time being."

"Up north...?"

"Yeah. He's a Canadian citizen. Totally lame, right?"

"A Canadian citizen? But surely you're not -"

"Hey, don't worry about your precious Alfred persona. I'm American through and through. Look, man," he added to address Arthur's questioning expression, "It's a long story." His smile faded slightly. "Hey, do you want some dessert?"

Arthur nodded mutely as Alfred spread the paperwork across the tabletop and beckoned the waitress over. He ordered two slices of cherry pie and set to work examining the documents, and when their dessert arrived he pulled his helping towards himself without even looking up.

Arthur cut into the tip of his pie with the edge of his fork.

"So…does it all look alright?"

"Just dandy," said Alfred with his mouth full. "Pen?"

Arthur took one from his breast pocket and watched him set to work jotting down initials and occasionally his full name in large, square writing. It fit what little Arthur knew of his personality. It was how the Alfred of the script would write. Frankly…it was perfect. And suddenly Arthur was so happy he could barely swallow the bite of pie he had in his mouth at that moment, but he managed to do so and maintain an even expression as Alfred finished and reorganized the stack of papers, handing them to Arthur with a smile.

"There's just one condition."

Arthur blinked. "But…you've already signed."

"I know," Alfred beamed. "I want this to be a deal between men, not between courts."

Arthur put the papers back in the briefcase uneasily. "Alright. What do you want?"

"A descriptor."

"A what?"

"I won't let you insult my country if you can't give me the adjective to describe how you're insulting it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well this script," Alfred tapped his briefcase. "My character. His girlfriend. The setting. It's all obviously just an allegory for the shambles this country is in." He said 'shambles' with a remarkable degree of affection. "I mean, for god's sake, Arthur, the title is _Keep Dreaming, America. _Come on. I'm not retarded. It might as well be a documentary._"_

He smirked while Arthur gaped.

"So. about that adjective. Remember, before Matthew came in, when I was trying to describe the message you're trying to send and couldn't come up with the right word?" Arthur nodded. "Well, since I'm American and, by my very nature, lazy," Alfred winked. "You think it up for me. I want to hear it at the movie's premier. Can you do that for me?"

Damn Alfred and those perplexing flashes of intelligence. Arthur wanted to leap across the table and slap him, wanted to shove the remains of his pie in that silly grin, wanted to hit him soundly with the briefcase he had so insolently tapped, wanted to ask him where on earth he had gotten such _nerve _from, ('_can _you do that for me?' he had said, as if Arthur honestly weren't capable of interpreting his own script! _The nerve!) _wanted to ask him what, exactly, Alfred would do if Arthur didn't agree, wanted to ask him how he managed to see through him so quickly, wanted….

"It's a deal."

…well, he certainly hadn't wanted that. But then Alfred smiled, beamed, sweeping a stray lock of hair from his cheek and releasing the full force of his white teeth and tan skin and gleaming blue eyes, and Arthur felt his mouth go rather dry.

"You're a brat," he snapped, because now he had Alfred's signature and could be as rude as he wanted. "Keep the script. Read over it. I hope you can at least try to act because I've decided that filming starts tomorrow. At six. In the morning. Oh, and if you're late I'll tan your hide."

Alfred laughed, gave him a facetious salute and said that signing his dear little innocent self away was _totally worth _seeing Arthur display his true colors, to which Arthur told him to kindly fuck off and that he wasn't sure who was paying for lunch but it certainly wouldn't be _him,_ which only brought on more hysteria and a fond clap on the shoulder which left Arthur in moderate pain for the rest of the day.

There was no doubt to be had: Alfred was a pain in the ass but he was perfect, no, perfect was an understatement, he was practically a personification of the damn country!

So.

A descriptor, eh?

Loud. Obnoxious. Cheeky. Overt. Foolish. Persistent. Excessive. Excitable. Surprising. Strong. Smiling. Brilliant. Capturing. _American._

Arthur made a mental note to purchase a thesaurus.

_Continued…_

* * *

><p>Sorry for the plot-establishment chapter. The next will be much more centered on their relationship…whatever that may be…*kols*<p>

**a/n** – _c'est dommage _means _what a pity, _etcetera.

Oh, and pancakes are totally hangover food, although idk about their being 'fairy food'. I just needed to bring up sexuality somewhere in the first chapter because I _hate it _when fangirls write AUs in which everybody takes for granted that everybody is gay. What? No. You can't do that.

If you review, you will receive either Arthur or Alfred in the mail in six to eight weeks. Yesss.

UNTIL THE NEXT INSTALLMENT, MY BELOVEDS!


	2. Chapter 2

LOOK U GAIZ: I'M BACK. DID YOU MISS ME?

Here I am with the disgustingly long second installment of _Keep Dreaming, America_. I do apologize or the word count. When you make it through, give yourself a medal or something. Seriously.

**In Brief:** Alfred manages to get poor little tsun-tsun Artie out on the town and proceeds to attempt to get him to reveal his inner dere-dere. GOOD LUCK, HERO.

**First off:** A big fat **thank you** to all reviewers, favoriters, (making up words is fun) story-alerters, (so fun!) etcetera. You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing your opinion. TO SOPHIE: My anonymous review feed: GTFO of it. Jk, jk, I love you, bro, and totally share in your fetish for smart! Alfred. Why else would I write him as such? xD **TO ALL ELSE:** I adore you. With all my heart. Really. I hope you enjoy.

**Second off:** I realized I have neither clever nor meaningful names for my chapters. In fact, I have none. *furrows brow* Well, if I think of something, I'll fix that. But so far, it's 'Chapter 1' and so on in a similar fashion. Sorry. :P If you happen to have any ideas, shoot.

**Lastly:** The third chapter will be up this weekend (either Saturday or Sunday depending on my work ethic, which reviews can and will improve! *begs*) and then **updates will be weekly, **likely on Saturday nights. Unfortunately, I have to do RL shit, such as that little thing they like to call school. SORRY!

Oh, and another sorry for undoubtedly butchering the city planning of Los Angeles. I've never been there, thus the reason why I don't name any streets or buildings or movie studios - not even Hollywood Avenue. Nope.

Eventually this horrifying author's notage will shrink. Maybe. Ahaha. No promises.

ENJOY.

* * *

><p>Arthur had gradually begun to realize that when, nearly a month ago, he had sat in a grubby diner across from a handsome young hopeful who (rather fatefully) went by the title of Alfred F. Jones and had remarked to himself that the boy who was signing a contract to play the hero of Arthur's screenplay was practically a personification of the United States of America, he had not understood in the least just how true those words would prove to be.<p>

Alfred was, of course, nothing like the modern-day America; he did not mirror the gradually tiring if not already exhausted overgrown child of Europe, not the strange golden creature who had once awed the world but was finally beginning to tarnish, but rather in the glimmer of his eyes and the curve of his smile survived the image of the nation that was now only perceptible in the remains of the small towns beside the highways and in the halls of vintage stores, ensnared in classic advertisements featuring the tinted image of the smiling family – the self-made father with the chiseled jaw and shining hair, the cupid-mouthed mother with her hand resting on his arm, their cherubic children, giggling from the backseat of their gleaming convertible – somehow this was all reflected in Alfred, almost through his very way of existing.

And if it were not for the personality of Americans, this would all have been quite charming.

But alas, Alfred was the perfect model, and therefore he was also loud and clumsy, in this sense very much an overgrown child, a veritable whirlwind of flailing arms and legs and too-big hands that toppled anything in their wake. Despite his occasional displays of intelligence, which were as brief and infrequent as they were unnerving and rather…fascinating…he was also naïve and childish, assuming far too much good to be in everything and irritating Arthur's long-practiced and very much trusted cynicism to no end.

He was twenty-two, only five years younger than Arthur, (who always had been, admittedly, a little old for his years) but seemed to have never exceeded sixteen, especially when it came to being tactful: perhaps it entertained Francis when Alfred loudly inquired as to why Arthur, being nothing more than a mere screenwriter, was allowed not only to watch their performances but to assert his opinion regarding their quality, but Arthur did not share in his colleague's amusement and had taken to actually stepping in front of the cameras to hit Alfred should the need arise.

This, however, was not to say that Alfred was rude – actually, he was quite charming when he wanted to be, in a sickeningly classic sort of way, all pleases and thank-yous and pulling out chairs and opening doors (Arthur had even seen him tip his hat – er, baseball cap - once), which caused all the female studio assistants (plus a few of the men) to giggle and sigh and bring him something from the snack table at break times, on the condition, of course, that he also share in their company for the time it took him to consume whatever they brought. Alfred was always perfectly willing to do so, smiling and joking with his admirers and occasionally rendering them senseless with one of his long, clear peals of laughter, but Arthur had never seen him make an attempt to get any closer to any of them, which was definitely for the best – relations between studio personnel rarely ended very well.

As for Alfred's acting, he was bumbling, at points almost painfully inexperienced, but breathtakingly sincere, to the extent that after watching him performance a pivotal or particularly emotional scene Arthur was almost able to forget everything about the boy that irked him and could give him a genuinely appreciative slap on the shoulder. In addition, Alfred's charming ineptitude coupled with Elizaveta's more restrained style of acting with surprising ease, and Arthur couldn't help but smile from time to time as he watched them work together, advising and annoying each other and gradually forming a bond of friendship that he could see slipping through their words, slowly blowing life into the lines he had penned. Indeed, there were moments when Arthur felt he was almost fond of the boy.

But then again, off-camera Alfred was absolutely unbearable, loud and overt and excessive, making absolutely no effort to disguise his opinions or emotions, blatantly insulting Arthur with that ridiculous grin on his face before turning around and successfully reducing an assistant or a member of the technical crew or even one of the executives at World Series Entertainment to sighs and buckling knees regardless of their gender, although…well, this particular habit of his did have some upsides.

A despairing Francis had thought that they would be forced to construct the sets for the scenes in the movie which took place in Paris and London for lack of funds, but after the few tabloids that remained skulking the streets of Los Angeles had caught wind of Alfred F. Jones, the previously unheard-of and really quite dashing hero seeking to recall his country's former glory through film, public knowledge of the movie, or at least public knowledge of and therefore demand for Alfred, skyrocketed to the extent that the CEOs of World Series Entertainment were considering expanding the film's budget to finance excursions to both cities so that they could show off their little slice of the American dream to the world.

Arthur couldn't blame Americans for wanting to cling onto what they were losing in the form of a handsome young upstart, and he certainly couldn't complain about the possible budget expansion; if he could get Alfred in to see the CEOs of the studio he thought perhaps the boy could charm them into forking over the plane tickets. Gilbert's opinion was hard to predict but Antonio had always fostered a notorious weakness for pretty little things, a category in which Alfred could definitely qualify, and was easily swayed by emotional appeals, an art at which Alfred was a master.

But so often the bad points of Alfred outweighed the good, especially since he seemed to have developed a taste for irritating Arthur to the point where he actually provoked physical harm unto himself, although he always merely laughed off Arthur's blows and patted him on the back in a way that Arthur perhaps misconstrued as being patronizing, seeing as Alfred was probably as blissfully unaware of his physical strength as he was of the rest of the universe.

As if this were not enough, the presence of Alfred seemed to also include the presence of Matthew, who could more often than not be found skulking around the studio, interrogating Arthur and Francis between dropping remarks regarding the unbearable staleness or clichéd quality of the script or the supporting actors when he was not leaning against a wall and smoking slender cigarettes with a pensive expression on his face that Arthur was positive he had contrived solely for the sake of appearing troubled. What was best about the whole situation was definitely that Alfred never made an effort to shoo him away, only smiling and waving wildly at his brother in the cases where he acknowledged him at all.

Ah yes. And god forbid one should forget that damned deal Arthur had struck up with the boy involving the interpretation of his script…although Alfred had promised to give Arthur until the premiere of the movie to come up with the perfect adjective to describe the perception of the modern world asserted by the dialogue, every other day the boy could be found hovering near Arthur's ear like an overexcited child, demanding a reply. Despite Arthur's refusals, Alfred unfailingly maintained this little game. Indeed, he was persistent, idiotically so, and what marked an American more clearly than persistence?

Oh yes. Alfred F. Jones was perfect. And perfect was quickly becoming an annoyance.

"_Sous-titre!" _Francis snapped through the megaphone, making a chopping motion through the air with his hand. Alfred seemed to deflate as he took his hands from Elizaveta's shoulders and rocked backwards on his heels, his expression growing rather sheepish as he took in the frustrated expressions of the director and crew.

"Alfred, _mon cher,"_ Francis' voice had fallen to a coo, "what is wrong with you today?"

"Sorry, man," Alfred said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I just can't seem to get that one line right. I don't know what it is that's stopping me, but…"

Arthur pressed two fingers between his eyebrows in irritation. "It's very simple, Alfred. I've seen you work with much more complicated expressions than this. It really shouldn't be a problem."

"I know, I know, but it _is._" 

"Alfred, we've already made at least seven takes," Francis sighed. "The entire first part of the scene is perfect, and Elizaveta is flawless," he winked at her and she stuck her tongue out at him. "As are you, that is, until it comes down to this line, right…"

Arthur jabbed the script with his finger to emphasize Francis' point.

"…right here. '_I'm incapable'. _It's an explanation as to why you weren't lying to her."

"I know what it is," said Alfred sulkily from the corner of his mouth. Arthur crumpled the script between his fists in exasperation but Francis merely chuckled.

"Then pray tell, dear boy, why can't you manage it?"

"I told you, I don't know."

Arthur glanced down at his knuckles and realized that they were white from clutching the script so tightly in his miserable efforts at suppressing his frustration. He exhaled and slowly lessened his hold.

"Honestly, Alfred, it can't be that hard to explain. Why you can't, I mean."

"Oh really?" Alfred's lower lip jutted out and he crossed his arms across his chest. "If you've got it so well figured out, why don't you enlighten me?"

"Well," Arthur rested his elbow against the arm of Francis' director's chair, balancing his temple on two fingers. "I'll say right off the bat that you're impossibly arrogant."

"Excuse me?"

"Arrogance. Along with _ignorance, _it's one of your least attractive qualities." Alfred's eyes were wide and Elizaveta's shoulders were trembling as she tried to restrain her laughter. "So I'm hardly surprised that you have trouble getting your character to sound genuine while admitting a fault," Arthur felt his mouth quirk upwards in an involuntary half-smile – whether of grudging fondness or simple malice he wasn't sure. "Although some would say it's a virtue – an inability to lie, that is."

Francis snickered in the following silence and Elizaveta finally crumbled, having to turn her back to the cameras while she shook with laughter. Alfred merely stared for a few moments, eyes wide, before a smile began to spread slowly across his face. He looked disconcertingly handsome standing there grinning like an idiot – this wasn't right at all.

"What are you smiling at, you oaf?"

"You're a real tightass, huh, Artie?"

"I beg your pardon? And what did you just call me? _Artie? _In the case that you haven't heard, my name is -"

Alfred's grin merely widened. "Yep, a genuine tightass. Must be because you're British. But I gotta admit," he winked facetiously and Arthur resisted the desire to chuck the tightly-rolled script at his forehead. "You sure do know your stuff when it comes to acting. I think I finally understand why they let the screenwriter in on the filming around here."

Before Arthur could reply as he saw fit (a sound punch to the nose might have properly summarized his feelings), Alfred had hopped down from the set and was scampering towards Francis' directors chair while he expressed his hopes of acquiring the rest of the day off on the basis that he was really a lost cause until he could sleep on the lines. Francis tapped his copy of the script against his bottom lip pensively; Arthur could see him preparing to agree and immediately intervened.

"Nonsense. We come here every day to work. There's no time to waste, especially not if we want that budget expans -"

"Boy, Artie, have you measured the length of the stick up your ass? It's gotta be a world record or something."

"I – why you! _Don't call me that_!" Arthur glanced wildly at Francis for help only to find his plea returned with a shrug and a faint smirk. "Wait, Bonnefoy, you can't seriously be thinking -"

"Calm yourself, Arthur. If the boy says he is useless, what is the point in keeping him here?" Francis wasn't even looking at him; evidently he favored rummaging around in the breast pocket of his silk dress shirt, presumably in search of a cigarette, to actually taking the damn film seriously."_Et d'ailleurs, mon cher, tout le monde a besoin de se reposer quelquefois." _

"I don't very well give a damn," snapped Arthur. He had only just begun to tell Francis off for slipping into a language that he knew very wellmade Arthur's stomach turn before he felt Elizaveta's chin dig into shoulder and was forced to whirl around in order to bat her away with his hands.

"Come on, Arthur," she rolled her eyes. "Evidently Alfred can't act," she elbowed the boy in the stomach fondly for emphasis and likewise accepted his gentle swat at the back of her head. "But his idea isn't half-bad. We've been working our asses off and we all need a break. Plus," her eyes sparkled, "I'd like to have some extra time to measure that stick Alfred mentioned - "

"I absolutely _hate_ you all!" Arthur turned around and folded his arms across his chest violently. "If you all want to behave like frivolous, attention-deprived children blindly following the evident Pied Piper of idiocy, otherwise known as Alfred F. Jones, you are all perfectly welcome to do so, but please don't expect that _I _will follow you in your foolishness! I'll have you know that -" he whirled back around, his mouth open wide and his finger extended to punctuate his statement, only to be met with a familiarly vacuous, wide blue stare and…and little else. Evidently, Francis and Elizaveta had taken their leave when the opportunity arose; Alfred sniggered and Arthur jammed his index finger into his chest.

"Alfred F. Jones, so help me god, I am going to - "

Alfred batted his finger away, his grin not faltering for even a minute before Arthur's fury.

"Nope, Artie, _I'll _tell you what _you're_ gonna do!" He beamed and bent to clap a heavy palm on Arthur's shoulder. "You're gonna come with me and we're gonna get that stick out of your ass once and for all! Then we'll call up Guinness and see if you made the book this year, okay?"

"I…wait, what? I told you not to call me that! And pray tell me what exactly is this nonsense you're spewing regarding -" Without further warning, Alfred latched onto his elbow, and Arthur abruptly found himself being dragged through the halls of World Series Entertainment regardless of his own volition. "I say, what do you think you're doing? Release me immediately!"

"Ha, lol, Artie, your accent is so hilarious. I gotta say -it's much better when you're mad."

"Lol – I can't believe - who on earthactually _says _that _out loud_? And I thought I told you not to call me that!" As Alfred loaded them into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby, it became increasingly evident that Arthur was not going to succeed in his attempts to escape; he sighed, admitting his temporary defeat by demanding to be informed of to where, exactly, he was being kidnapped. Alfred winked. He was being facetious. Again.

"We're gonna paint the town red, Artie."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You. Me. The town. Red. I can't exactly explain the etymology of the saying, but you get what it means," he glanced at his watch, not releasing his hold on Arthur's elbow. "It's almost noon, so I guess we should get some lunch first. Then I'm showing you everything there is to see in LA because I just _know _you haven't seen it or at least not _really _seen it because that stick up your ass has clearly been stopping you from enjoying yourself in any way, shape, or form…"

While Arthur finished his retort explaining that he wasn't very well interested in exploring the crumpled remains of what _used_ to be a brilliant cultural empire, a costume designer that he was vaguely acquainted with entered the elevator at the fourth floor and gave them a very odd look; either Alfred didn't register this or didn't care, seeing as he continued explaining his plot entirely unfazed.

"…and that should take a while so I guess after that we can get dinner somewhere and then we can go to a movie and if you're really really nice and not too British to me you can pick the movie, I totally promise. And hey, we can go halvsies on everything, man." He said those last two statements as if they somehow compensated for everything. Arthur could only gape as they arrived at the lobby and the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

"But Artie, there's one condition."

Arthur nearly choked.

"Alfred, surely you don't mean to suggest that after you have turned my friends against me, torn me from my work, and plotted an entire six to eight hours of specialized torture for me at your side, you actually have the nerve to tell me that there's a sodding _condition?_"

Alfred nodded cheerfully. "You bet! But hey, don't worry, I think you'll be up to it. All you have to do is help me figure out that line I can't get. Use your awesome cynicism powers or something. Oh, and if you don't, you're totally paying for dinner. Sounds cool, right, bro?"

"…bro?" Arthur couldn't decided which he detested more; that particular colloquialism or _Artie. _

"Dude, yeah," Alfred commenced his dragging of Arthur across the lobby towards the doors. "This is a total _bro_mance we're starting right here. We have to remember today's date in case with want to celebrate the anniversary or something. Hey, dude, I know, I could give you roses – except they would be _bro_ses!" And with that brilliant comedic statement he dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"That's not only entirely preposterous, but also not included in the English language."

Alfred snorted. "Maybe _your_ English. But forget that. You're agreeing?"

Arthur glanced down at his captured elbow.

"I hardly seem to have a choice."

Alfred made some sort of ridiculous gesture which evidently expressed his victory and actually dared to grab Arthur in a hug smack dab in the middle of the lobby, not only nearly crushing the breath out of him but also scoring a substantial number of odd looks from their coworkers as he rambled on in his excessively loud voice about how _totally awesome _and _bro-tastically amazing _their afternoon was sure to be. Arthur could do nothing but try to disengage himself as soon as possible and hope he wouldn't bruise.

Damn Francis and Elizaveta for opening up this opportunity in the first place. Next, damn Alfred and his unfair physical strength and his selective ignorance. Then damn the entire concept of 'bro' – whatever that even _meant_. Oh, and don't forget to damn Los Angeles for existing and therefore allowing Arthur to be dragged through her streets by America's greatest buffoon. Actually, scratch all that – just damn America. Yes, damn America. That would work for Arthur just fine.

* * *

><p>In his excitement to begin the adventure of their afternoon as free men, Alfred had entirely neglected to change from costume back into civilian dress, and Arthur soon found himself very thankful that the Jones of his script enjoyed a relatively normal, if not rather outdated, sense of fashion – the flesh-and-blood Alfred attracted enough attention with his handsome face and conspicuous mannerisms without the assistance of an outlandish movie costume as it was, and Arthur's face was already burning only a few minutes into their lunch, unceremoniously set within the nearest McDonalds Alfred could find.<p>

As yet another cluster of whispering teenage girls drifted past their booth, their giggling and blushing cheeks poorly concealed behind their hands, Arthur wondered what Alfred would do if he abandoned his wilted prepackaged salad and made a run for it then and there. For fear that he would again be forced to endure the humiliation of being helplessly led around by the elbow, Arthur stayed in his seat.

Alfred grinned insipidly and waggled his fingers at the girls, all three of whom promptly shrieked and shot off to some dark corner of the restaurant to reminisce over their brief but memorable encounter with Hollywood's final golden boy. Arthur sighed and tried to stab a crouton with his fork, furrowing his eyebrows as it crumbled across a sorry looking piece of lettuce. Americans.

"Artie, you know, not speaking at all doesn't qualify as being nice to me. If you're not careful I'm gonna get to pick the movie."

Arthur pierced a cherry tomato with one prong of his fork, refusing to meet Alfred's gaze.

"Why exactly are you so intent on getting me to be nice to you?"

"I kind of want to see if you can."

Arthur felt an unwarranted smirk appear on his mouth. "Oh, I assure you, _I'm incapable. _There, I've said it, and now," he brandished his fork at Alfred, quirking an eyebrow expectantly. "You can too."

Alfred lowered his second hamburger of the meal to stick out his tongue. "You're a terrible bro."

"I've never claimed otherwise."

Despite Arthur's determinedly sour mood, Alfred's grin returned when they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the street and he was able to map out his plot in its grand entirety.

"First," he explained as he led Arthur down the sidewalk, dodging the shoppers and children and businessmen clogging the streets of Los Angeles with frightening speed and indifference, "we're going to go stare at all the big movie studios - "

"_Once_-big movie studios," Arthur corrected. "And we've both seen them already so I really don't see the point in - "

"But you haven't really _seen _them," insisted Alfred, "until you've seen them through my eyes."

"Oh, you mean those that are rendered blind without the assistance of prescription glasses as thick as a deck of cards, yeah?"

Alfred shot him a glare.

"_Anyways_, if there's time after that, but I don't reckon there will be, we can go see all the other sights that LA has to offer, like the parks and the monuments and the celebrity's houses and -"

"Okay, I'll give you that last one, but otherwise, are you sure we're thinking of the same LA? Because all I see here are eviction notices and cigarette butts -"

"_And _my favorite place in the city, which is really awesome and therefore totally a secret until I take you there because it's totally like, beyond my descriptive powers -"

"Well, if it excels such rare ability, it truly _must _be grand -"

"Nobody likes a cynic, Artie. After that we'll go to a good place nearby for dinner and then we'll go to a movie and hey, because _I'm _feeling nice today, unlike _somebody, _I'll let you pick the movie no matter what. Damn, I'm generous. As I was saying -"

"You're an ass."

"_As I was saying_, you're gonna love it, Artie. You've got my promise._"_

"Oh, Alfred, I am just so very sure,"

The beginning of Arthur's sentence was met with an expectant grin.

"…that I've already told you not to call me that."

And thus continued their conversation for the next seventy-two city blocks, interrupted only occasionally when whichever pair of permanently locked or broken-down studio gates they stopped in front of provoked a particularly poignant memory from Alfred, an occurrence which never failed to bring on an onslaught of anecdotes that was, unfortunately, as idiotic as it was hard to tune out.

The early afternoon sunlight waned gradually into the less precise, dustier glow that was particular to around four o'clock in the afternoon – around tea-time, Arthur noted glumly, doubting that Los Angeles was considered home by any good Victorian-era tea parlors, the presence of which could perhaps, he reckoned, salvage the tattered remains of the day that he had so far been forced to suffer through. There seemed, however, to be a temporary light at the end of an admittedly much longer tunnel: he and Alfred were nearing the end of the strip of broken-down or evacuated studios, and Arthur was about to suggest that they save the visit to Alfred's favorite spot in the city for a strictly-hypothetical 'other day', (Arthur was going to be sure that these excursions were not going to become frequent occurrences) when Alfred startled him by cutting his most recent story, a thrilling retelling of his almost-encounter with some obscure Indie actor/director/screenwriter (goodness, they were everything, weren't they?) whom Matthew greatly admired but Arthur had never heard of nor thought to care about, with a gasp followed by a soft sigh, something that struck Arthur as not only atypical regarding their situation, seeing as Alfred usually ended his anecdotes with some combination of wild hand gestures and ridiculous poses, but also went entirely against what he knew of the boy's general disposition.

Before Arthur could inquire further into this sudden change, he was abruptly steered into a side street and dragged up a breathtakingly long incline, at the top of which stood the practically decrepit remains of what had once been the world's greatest movie-making giant, the current neglect of which had actually reached the extent to where wiry strains of ivy had begun to weave their ways between the bars of the old iron gates and through the enormous corporate superstructure, serving as oddly fitting companions to the shattered windows and explosions of graffiti that otherwise embellished the establishment.

"This is it," breathed Alfred when Arthur had finally stopped panting from their sprint up the hill, "My favorite place in LA, and therefore," he winked. "The world."

Arthur raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"It's a bit of a dump, don't you think?"

Alfred merely smiled.

"Sure, but what else do you see?"

Arthur humored him by briefly scanning their surroundings. From the top of the hill he could see the entire strip of abandoned and crumbling studios, the few that were still in business, and even, he fancied, a glimpse of World Series Entertainment. Overall it was a rather saddening vista.

"I see the remains of what was once a great center of culture," he said dryly. "How lovely - the decline is especially noticeable here. Why on earth, Alfred, would a place like this be your favorite in the city?"

Alfred laughed softly. "Hey, cut me some slack. It wasn't like this when I fell in love with it, of course. Back then I was just another dumbshit California kid who wanted to be a movie star…it was something like fifteen years ago, I guess…and the place went bankrupt the year before last. Ironically, or maybe predictably, this place was the first to fall. I guess that's why it's so far gone now." He kicked aside a small mountain of discarded beer bottles and approached the gate, running his hands across the filthy old walls, his gaze following the invisible trails his fingers drew across their surfaces.

"Man, Arthur," he murmured after some time. "This city used to be so great. You have no idea."

Arthur blinked, almost alarmed by his subdued tone and expression.

"Well, Alfred, I should hope that you're wrong, considering that I scripted a film that focuses entirely on the failure of the American dream."

"Failure?" Alfred glanced up at him and Arthur was startled to be met with such a serious expression from behind the panes of his glasses. "Oh, no, Arthur, that's where _you're_ wrong. The American dream was a classic success, I daresay the _perfect _success – we wouldn't even have Hollywood without all the people it lured to this country, after all. _**a/n**_I'm a born and raised Californian, but when I was a kid, man, this city, to me…well, let's just say that I can definitely emphasize with what all those people pouring into this country must have felt way back in the day."

Yet another curious glimmer of intellect. The boy was a pain but he certainly could be fascinating at times, and Arthur was not about to let this opportunity to puzzle out the real character behind Alfred F. Jones a little further go to waste.

"I demand that you explain this to me."

Alfred was studying the slow movements of his hand again, his eyebrows drawn together slightly, casting a subtle shadow across his eyes and forehead.

"I mean, I think if you had told me that the streets of LA were paved with gold, I would have believed you. You've gotta understand; when I was ten years old, this city …it was everything to me. There was nothing else I dreamed of except living here, of being a real movie star, and when I was a kid and would come here to visit," he patted the wall affectionately. "It seemed like it was all really possible. There honestly was nothing else I wanted in the world. Well," he paused and smiled sheepishly, his hand going to the back of his neck. "That, and to catch Osama Bin Laden single-handedly, just to give him a good sock in the jaw," he chuckled before his expression sobered again. "Looks like I was a little late on both frontiers, eh?"

Arthur shrugged. "I fear you may be right about Osama, but you're a star now, aren't you?"

Alfred laughed sadly. "Yeah, I guess so. But it won't ever be the same again."

Arthur found that he was too stunned by the expression on his face to agree with him.

"But, back to what I was telling you before," Alfred brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, his brow furrowed in thought. "The American dream wasn't by any means a failure. Even if it wasn't, well, exactly…_real_…it was still what made America so wonderful, back even just five or ten years ago before everything sort of…went to hell, I guess, for lack of better word. But the going-to-hell-part doesn't negate the wonderful part, it just ends it. Sometimes it upsets me, not being able to see and to be a part of the greatest country the world has ever seen," he raised a finger warningly. "And don't you dare argue against it, you damn Briton," he winked, presumably to take the sting from his words. "But most of the time…it's okay. We don't want to admit it right now, but I think all of us Americans can sort of feel it…our country, she's tired. She's ready to rest, to stop sort of…being the hero of the world, I guess, because that never really panned out in the first place. So we're not happy, but…we're ready. But then again," he chuckled softly, not really out of amusement but more of as a way to fill the silence. "I don't really know. Maybe I'm only speaking for myself."

Arthur shook his head and, before he realized what he was doing, gently put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, leveling with his gaze.

"I don't think so," he said quietly. "I think you're right, Alfred."

Alfred blinked.

"Sorry?"

"I…I said I think you're right, Alfred. I can't believe I'm saying this, but…that…well, that was…that was a rather well-thought out opinion. You've honestly altered my perception of America, but only by a fraction, a practically undetectable amount, really, I'm surprised I noticed anything at all, so don't let it go to your head, you insufferable oaf."

Alfred pushed himself from the wall by the tips of his fingers, stared for a moment more, and then exploded into that indomitable grin, the afternoon sun falling on his face at just the angle that it gilded the edges of his glasses and mirrored the brilliance glittering from the curve of his mouth, the glint of his teeth, the glimmer in his eyes, effectively doubling the strength of his smile. Arthur quickly folded his arms across his chest, unsure of whether to be pleased with himself for returning that expression to Alfred's face or just plain irritated that the idiot, who had for a moment been entirely bearable, was positively _mooning_ at him again and was therefore sure to revert to his former irritating self. In the end he chose to translate this confusion into a combination of silence and complete refusal to meet Alfred's gaze.

"I told you that you'd never seen this city until you say it through my eyes, Artie."

"Shut up!" Arthur held up his hand. "Don't you dare say anything else to ruin it. You're an absolute fool, you know, getting all sentimental over a shithole like this. You obviously have some serious problems with letting go. I would advise you to seek help. Now then," he turned on his heel and began to stalk off in the other direction, speaking to Alfred over his shoulder as he went, knowing he was following by the loud clatter of his heels against the pavement. "It's getting late and I'm hungry and I suspect wherever you have chosen for dinner is a while away yet, so it's best we get going, and if you think I'm paying for dinner after you've dragged me to what may possibly be the most depressing place in the city of Los Angeles, if not the entire country of the United States of America, well…I suggest you seek something a little more advanced than mere 'help.' Perhaps an insane asylum would suffice."

He heard Alfred snicker from behind.

"Only if you can recommend me a good one, Artie."

Arthur sighed.

"Firstly, I told you not to call me that, and secondly, I most certainly can. It's called 'World Series Entertainment'; it's very sterile and I think you'll be quite happy there."

* * *

><p>They had decent Italian food at a little place where the management seemed to actually know Alfred and were therefore very excited to meet Arthur when Alfred introduced him as the man who had given him his start, which caused Arthur to blush because really it hadn't been just him but he and Elizaveta and Francis, and they had only seen Alfred because they had been looking to get plastered, and it was Francis who had invited Alfred over to their table anyways, somehow prying him away from the grip of a beautiful woman in the way only Francis could manage.<p>

On the whole, Alfred was not entirely unbearable throughout the meal and at one point he and Arthur even got down to working on that one line he couldn't quite master, or really begin to master at all, and although their efforts garnered little success they left the restaurant (as Arthur had prophesized, Alfred ended up paying) having only squabbled four times, and that could be considered an accomplishment in its own right, although it perhaps could have been partly attributed to the substantial glass of red wine Arthur had partaken in with their meal.

Being already established as extremely talkative, Alfred had managed to divulge unto Arthur a considerable load of information regarding himself and his origins merely over their appetizers. As before stated, he was a born and raised Californian, but came from the nearby suburbs while his father worked at a corporation in the city, thus explaining both his familiarity with the area and his childhood dreams of glamour and gold-paved streets, etcetera. Matthew was his elder by two years and moved to Los Angeles to work with an underground film organization when Alfred was still in college and the city still retained a little life; by the time Alfred had earned his degree and rented a studio apartment in the city, people, talent and, most importantly, money, were draining from Hollywood at a rate that was nearly as alarming as the damage already done to the film industry by the country's failing economy.

"So," Alfred had said. "You guys have no idea what a stroke of luck it is that I've met you. Really, I'm grateful. You've given me a chance where it had seemed that there was none to be had."

A little gratitude. Well, that was certainly nice to hear. That, along with the glass of wine, could definitely explain Arthur's substantially lightened mood as they made their way towards the nearest movie theatre, slowed by the weight of the food in their stomachs.

"I hope you know I am most definitely still picking the movie." Arthur glanced warily at Alfred over his shoulder as they approached the theatre.

"Dude, come on, I promised."

"Oh yes, because that means so much."

"Oh, Artie, you've got no idea. If I broke that promise it would be a total breach of _bro_tocol."

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Bro_tocol, Artie, _bro_tocol! You know, like the sacred code between bros?"

"Oh yes, of course. How silly of me."

"You can say that again," muttered Alfred as they approached the ticket counter; it was a Tuesday evening and hardly anyone was there. "Hey, man, you buy the tickets, I'm going in to get popcorn and candy and stuff."

"But you just ate what was possibly the most revoltingly massive pizza I have ever seen!"

Alfred grinned and patted his stomach. "But we haven't had dessert."

Arthur rolled his eyes, waving Alfred away with his hand and scanning the movie titles and times above the ticket counter. All the so-called movies could be otherwise classified as veritable shit, so Arthur decided to go with the apparent theme and purchase tickets to the latest _Saw_ installment; he had always secretly enjoyed being scared, even by awful slasher flicks, so the total absence of plot and characterization wouldn't be as bothersome, and, as an added bonus, there was no way Alfred could mock him for his choice – thrillers were definitely manly, and very much within the teachings of his ridiculous _bro_tocol, Arthur was sure.

He ordered his tickets from the girl at the counter, who glanced at Alfred, who was eagerly chatting up the man at the concessions stand, through the glass behind her as she ran Arthur's credit card through the machine. For a moment he thought she was going to melt when she realized that she was in the presence of _the _Alfred F. Jones, but she merely smiled, and Arthur decided that she must not be the tabloid type.

"So," she said as she broke apart their tickets. Arthur stifled a disappointed sigh – perhaps he had misjudged her. "How long have you two been together?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Together," she glanced up at him. Her smile was still there. "Please don't worry, I think it's adorable - Los Angeles is a very tolerant place. We're all open-minded here."

Arthur felt himself turn pink. "Oh, no, I'm afraid you're mistaken," he chuckled nervously as he accepted the tickets from her. "We work together – he dragged me out here today – it's a rather long story, actually, I mean, well…h-have a wonderful evening."

And with that graceful statement, Arthur fled the ticket counter; he knew he was blushing like mad (he hated when people tuned into whatever vibes his sexuality evidently emanated; it was as presumptuous as it was embarrassing, and he actually shivered with dread when he imagined what Alfred would have said had he been there, too – he had an inkling that such an observation would certainly disagree with the _bro_tocol and rather wished that the cashier had been a star-struck fangirl instead.

And what exactly, pray tell, about being gay was especially _adorable_, as she had put it? Perhaps she fancied that all there was to it was two pretty boys giggling and kissing and whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears but Arthur, for one, knew very well how that certainly wasn't the case at all. _**A/n**_

"After all," he sighed to himself as he approached Alfred at the concessions stand, "why else would I have - "

"Artie!" beamed Alfred, his arms overflowing with popcorn and sodas and bright boxes of candy, "Here, these are for you!"

Arthur gazed down at the enormous package of Sour Patch Kids that was suddenly in his hands.

"Why Alfred," he sighed. "Whatever are you trying to tell me?"

Alfred snickered. "Nuthin', Artie, nuthin' at all. Now come on, we gotta get good seats. What movie did you pick?"

Arthur handed him his ticket and kindly held his own up so he could see the title without having to cease his assault on the popcorn.

"_Saw_…whatever the number is now. A miscellaneous _Saw_, I suppose. I know it's absolutely dreadful, but so were all the other options, so I figured we might as well have some fun if we were gonna be induced to vomit anyways…hold on, Alfred, are you alright?"

Alfred's cheeks were still jammed with popcorn and his hand was stalled halfway in its ascent to his mouth; his eyes were wide with something that looked almost like alarm, but that couldn't be right. Sure, the Saw movies were truly awful, but poor plotting and non-existent characterization were no cause for panic.

"Alfred, I meant that whole vomiting thing metaphorically, you know."

Alfred nodded and swallowed his mouthful of popcorn with moderate effort, seeming to return to normal although he looked faintly strained, as though he were actually working to control his behavior for once.

"A-alright dude, let's go. I'm so ready for this. J-just don't flip out on me when it gets really scary, alright?" He was actually biting his lip as though he was trying to summon up the courage to give his ticket to the handler.

"I'll try to contain myself…" replied Arthur, raising an eyebrow as they followed the handler's directions and slipped into the dark theatre. Previews were already playing but there were only three other people inside; Arthur had feared that Alfred would insist that they sit in the very front row or something ridiculous and undoubtedly associated with the _bro_tocol, but he abruptly turned submissive and actually allowed himself to be led to the top row, chewing his popcorn almost methodically as they went.

"O-okay dude," whispered Alfred as the previews faded and the opening credits began. "You had better not freak out or anything when it gets super scary because that's totally uncool. You got that?"

Arthur was too disturbed by Alfred's strange behavior to chastise him for his presumptuousness and merely nodded.

"Alright then, dude," Alfred managed a shaky smile and raised his voice, pumping his fist in the air. "This is gonna be awesome!"

Well, that was a little more normal. Therefore it merited a more normal response.

"Shut up, you fool, you'll disturb the whole theatre."

"Oh yeah, the _whole theatre._ All three of them."

"Quiet, they'll hear you."

"Dude. Telling me to be quiet is definitely against the _bro_tocol."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and violently broke open his bag of Sour Patch Kids, at which Alfred fell obediently silent – that is, until about fifteen minutes into the movie, when the first killings started.

What followed was certainly not included in the _bro_tocol.

The force of Alfred's first scream left several clumps of half-chewed popcorn on Arthur's cheek. The other people in the theatre turned around just in time to witness him effectively climbing into Arthur's lap, locking his arms around his neck and stuffing his face in his shoulder amidst the explosion of popcorn and candy his seizure of terror had provoked, screaming all the while. Somehow both his knees and his elbows dug into Arthur's stomach at the same time as the soles of his heavy shoes sunk into his thigh and the frames of his glasses bit into the skin of his neck.

"Holy shit Arthur, did you fucking see that ohmygod ohmygod it was so fucking scary, dude, _no!" _He was addressing the girl on the screen and through his enormous distress Arthur wondered how he was still able to watch the movie at all from his current position. "_No, no, _you stupid girl, don't go in there, no, no, why the fuck are you going in there, stop, don't do it, holy shit holy shit holy shit, I can't take this, Arthur, this is so fucking scary OHMYGOD did you see that? he just totally _killed her _and I told her not to go in there but she didn't fucking _listen _ohmygod this movie is hardcore dude I don't know if I can handle it, I swear I think I'm gonna pee my pants -"

Perhaps if it had been any other person Arthur would not have been so alarmed by that last statement; however, seeing as it was Alfred, who never seemed to say anything without some sort of goal in mind, Arthur rocketed to his feet, dumping Alfred onto the floor in a cloud of popcorn and candy. Undeterred, Alfred immediately sprang back to his feet and essentially launched himself into Arthur's arms without faltering in his now-incoherent monologue of screaming and profanity. Unable to support his weight, Arthur tumbled back onto the theatre seats and, with the encouragement of the rest of the audience, resigned himself to his current position: partly crushed beneath Alfred's torso as the boy clung to his shoulders, hiding his face in the crook of Arthur's neck when the need arose and maintaining a constant chorus of whimpering and muttered curses when he was not breaking into full-on blubbering and shouts of advice to the actors on the screen. The worst part could possibly be that he actually seemed to be genuinely disappointed every time that they didn't heed his warnings regarding the basement or the bathroom mirror or the space between the couch and the wall.

When the credits finally rolled, Alfred slowly untangled himself from Arthur and took of his glasses, wiping the lenses on the edge of his shirt with a relieved sigh.

"Dude, that was _intense_. But I made it through to the end!" And with that, he was beaming again. "I should be proud of myself, don't you agree?"

Arthur delicately plucked a milk dud from behind his ear.

"Are you out of your _fucking mind?_"

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that, Artie," Alfred spoke nonchalantly, as if he had merely stepped on Arthur's foot rather than assaulted him in a public setting, as they made their way down the aisle of the theatre. "I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."

"I'm sorry, but you tried to tell me? When, pray tell, did this happen?"

Alfred shrugged. "I was giving you signals like crazy. It's not my fault you're not very perceptive.

"Signals – what signals? And what did you just say? Me? Not very perceptive? I'd like to teach you a thing or two about bloody _perception -"_

"Haha, dude, you actually said bloody. I wasn't sure if British people like, really said that or not." Alfred grinned and opened the door of the theatre for Arthur with a flourish of mock gallantry. "Hilarious."

"Sod off and stop being such a twat, you bloody git of a wanker."

"Aw, now you're just doing it on purpose. No fun!"

Arthur sighed and crossed his arms across his chest; it was still mid-summer but the evening had grown suddenly chilly and he was not only tired and altogether extremely ready for this ordeal to be over but also faintly sticky and achy from the onslaught of candy and popcorn and the full force of Alfred's weight. Hopefully Francis would be either out or asleep by the time he got home so that he could take a shower, have a bit of a nightcap, perhaps read a little, and then go to bed early entirely undisturbed; then he could get everyone back to work in the morning and life could resume as per usual.

"Alright then, Alfred, there's no way even you could possibly drag this ordeal out any further…so," Arthur turned before Alfred could attempt to challenge that statement, lifting his hand briefly in a gesture of farewell. "Thank you and goodnight. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

And Arthur had his back to Alfred, he was walking down the sidewalk, he was just a few feet away from the nearest crosswalk, he was almost there, he was almost free, he had nearly survived the day, his foot hit the first white bar on the pavement and -

"Artie, wait!"

Arthur paused momentarily, wondering if he should just pretend not to hear, keep going, find his way home and forget that any of this ever happened so that everything could return to business as usual the next day - and in that instant of consideration the crosswalk signal turned red and the opportunity was snatched away from him. Heaving an enormous sigh, he turned, slowly, miserably, to face Alfred, who had caught up to him in the meantime and was standing before him with a rather bashful expression on his face, wringing his hands together uncomfortably.

"What, Alfred?" Arthur was too exhausted to add any extra bite to his words and merely stood with his arms folded across his chest and his eyebrows raised as the other people on the street flooded around them, forming little eddies at their left and right.

"Well…" Alfred began to chew on his lower lip. "I mean…it's kind of…"

"Alfred. The night is hardly young."

"Well, it's just kind of…embarrassing."

Arthur snorted. "Since when have you been the shame-faced type, Alfred?"

Alfred was quiet. Was he…blushing? That surely couldn't be.

"Well, come out with it."

Arthur received nothing more than fidgeting.

"_Right now, _if you please, Alfred, or I'm leaving."

Alfred sucked in a deep breath only to evidently deflate again; Arthur snorted and turned on his heel before he felt fingers snag in his shirtsleeve. By this point they must have been making a scene, but Arthur had an inkling that Alfred wasn't about to let go and whirled around one last time, quirking an eyebrow exasperatedly.

"For heaven's sake, Alfred, this behavior is unusual to say the least -"

"Oh fuck it, Arthur, I'm scared!"

Oh, there was no doubt about it now. Alfred was blushing; there was no mistaking that rosy touch to his cheeks, the misery evident in his posture and the quirk of his lips, and he looked so discomfited, so altogether out of character, that it was honestly quite adorable.

"Excuse me?"

"This is all your fault, you know!" Alfred was still clinging onto his shirtsleeve; Arthur drew back his elbow to snatch it from his grasp. "If you hadn't chosen that damn movie this wouldn't be a problem, but you did, and it is, and I'm scared and it's _your _responsibility! You make it better!" And with that, he pointed his unoccupied finger at Arthur like a child.

"Alfred," Arthur inhaled slowly and stepped out of the crosswalk; Alfred's outburst had drawn some odd looks from the other pedestrians and it would be best that they keep their voices low from then on. "Even if you were six years old and I was your mother, how on earth would you expect me to take responsibility for something like this? Perhaps I should read you a story or check your closet for monsters, or if that doesn't work maybe you'd like me to _fucking breastfeed _you?"

At this Alfred erupted into giggles, perhaps understandably.

"Oh, for god's sake! Maybe you really are six years old, dissolving into hysterics over the word _breast!_" Arthur felt himself turn red as Alfred tried to explain through his laughter that it wasn't the _word _that had provoked such a reaction from him but rather the concept of Arthur breastfeeding.

"Well, what would you have me do? Not that I plan to do _anything_, of course, you're spoiled enough as it is, but I'd rather to like to hear what you've got in mind."

By that time Alfred had composed his expression enough to grin at him. Arthur felt faintly ill.

"Well, Artie, the solution seems simple enough to me."

* * *

><p>A so-called simple solution with a vast underbelly of hidden complexities: that could certainly be classified as an American practice, and therefore was, unfortunately for Arthur, completely fitting with Alfred's character. As Alfred led him up the stairs of his apartment building, eventually bringing them to a landing and beginning to fish in the pockets of his jeans in search of keys, chattering animatedly about how <em>super fun<em> this was going to be all the while, Arthur momentarily considered asking him what his mother would say if she could see him now or if he was really the kind of guy who expected someone to stay over after the first date, but he knew that he wouldn't understand the joke and opted not to interrupt the silence as Alfred pushed the door open with a little flourish and gestured for Arthur to enter first.

"How very gallant of you," grumbled Arthur as he stepped inside; despite himself he was grateful for the warmth and the promise of perhaps not a bed but possibly a couch, and even a stiff glass of _something, _Arthur couldn't be bothered as to what exactly, before they went to sleep…provided, of course, that Alfred kept something other than milk and cookies in his cabinets, an idea which, given their current situation, seemed to perhaps be too much to hope for.

"Hey, I am sorry, Artie," Alfred shrugged cheerfully out of his brown leather 50s style bomber jacket; it was a part of his costume and therefore actually studio property, noted Arthur irritably as he watched him hang it from one of the knobs on the wall. "But this is _technically _your fault, so it's only right that you make up for it with a sleepover!"

"First of all, it is by no means my fault that you are little more than an overgrown child, and second of all, grown men don't _have_ sleepovers."

"Bros do."

"I am not, never have been, never want to be, and therefore never will be, a bro."

"This sleepover begs to differ."

"Oh, Alfred, you will never truly know the extent of my loathing for you."

Alfred grinned handsomely. He kept doing that. How unfair.

"Betcha it'll be a lot less when you hear that I'm gonna take the couch."

Arthur blinked, slipping from his own jacket and hanging it carefully on the knob beside Alfred's before slipping out of his shoes. "That helps a little. Oh, and if you perchance had some scotch that you were willing to share, I can assure you that your chances of surviving the night would increase inestimably."

Alfred smirked. "Well, I don't know how anyone could turn down such a promise. How much water do you take?"

"Very, very little, my dear boy. _Especially _tonight."

"Can do. Living room's that way." He pointed before he slipped through a door which presumably led to the kitchen, inviting Arthur to make himself at home as he went.

Arthur followed his directions and had to fumble around on the side of the wall for a spell before he found a light switch and flipped it on, stepping into the room as he did so.

Alfred lived comfortably, that much was clear, but certainly not excessively, and the clean, new smell and almost awkward feel of the furniture and the lighting suggested to Arthur that this sense of comfort was a relatively new tenant in the apartment; it had probably arrived with his first paycheck from World Series Entertainment. The only things particularly homey about the room were the frames that cluttered the walls, depicting vintage movie posters and photographs that proved on closer inspection to be family snapshots, and the bookcases, which overflowed not with volumes of literature but of cinema, of movies in all their forms, all shapes and sizes, from every corner of the world and, apparently, every cranny in time: there was everything from practically archaic movie reels to thick black plastic VHS tapes to sleek high-definition volumes, and they were in such excess that they brimmed over from the shelves and spilled to the floor, pooling haphazardly in corners of the room but evidently not collecting dust. Obviously it was beloved collection and Arthur had to admit that he was impressed; the selection and breadth of the titles nearly rivaled his own.

Alfred reentered just as Arthur was panning through his formidable collection of Hitchcock titles, which occupied the ever-coveted spot just beside the television and DVD player. Arthur raised his eyebrows as he accepted the glass of scotch offered to him, using his unoccupied hand to raised Alfred's battered, clearly often-used copies of _The Birds _and _Psycho _questioningly.

Alfred grinned dopily. "Yep, two of my favorites. I guess I'm a masochist or something." _**a/n**_

Arthur snorted into his scotch and returned the movies to their place at the top of the pile.

"Hey, what can I say?" Alfred crouched down beside Arthur and ran his hand over the pile fondly. "How can you not love a guy with such an awesome name?" _**a/n**_

Somewhat placated by the presence of alcohol in his hand, Arthur let him off with a soft swat to the back of the head before retreating to the couch and sitting down heavily. Alfred joined him, making the cushions shift beneath his weight.

"Wanna watch something?"

"No. I want to drink. Then I want to sleep. That is all."

"Spoilsport."

"Insolent child. You're damn lucky I'm here at all. Now drink your scotch."

"Hm, using alcohol to shut me up…seems you're not a very good mommy."

"Well, love, seems I never claimed otherwise."

"You're an even _worse _bro."

Arthur didn't even dignify that with a response, merely took another long draw from his glass of scotch, sighing appreciatively as he felt the alcohol touch his throat and stomach with a familiar warmth. He scanned the room from this new angle and noticed again the air of awkwardness that accompanied the newer, more luxurious furniture, inspected the family photos more closely, found Matthew's smirk and Alfred's idiotic grin in nearly every one of them and grew accustomed to the faces belonging to two adults who were presumably their parents. Suddenly, Arthur was struck by a thought, and he bit down on his lower lip, debating whether it would be rude to ask Alfred such a presumptuous question…the scotch quickly decided for him and he found the words tumbling from his lips regardless of tact.

"Alfred, do you parents know you're here? In Los Angeles, I mean…er, perhaps I mean to ask…" Arthur gazed into his glass to occupy his eyes, now thoroughly embarrassed by his rudeness. "Your parents…what do they do?"

After a brief moment which Alfred passed being surprised that Arthur had not only started a conversation, but a conversation regarding he who was generally recognized as the greatest disruption in Arthur's otherwise-peaceful existence, the answer came as a chuckle followed by a yes, they were very much aware that Alfred was in Los Angeles, and that they were both farmers in the California countryside, at which Arthur barely managed to stifle a snort. So that lovely tan of Alfred's really _was _acquired through summers spent as an extra hand at the ol' mom and pop farm, as ridiculous as it sounded. How perfect. However, when Arthur turned his smirk to Alfred, he noticed a trace of worry in his brow.

"Hm? Alfred?" Arthur's advice regarding the amount of water in the glass had been taken seriously and the scotch certainly was softening him up. "What is it?"

"It's nothing, really." Alfred lifted his glass to his lips, presumably in order to occupy them with something other than answering the questions of a tipsy man who was rapidly becoming drunk.

"Bullshit, Alfred." There was the scotch piping up again. "Come on. You've dragged me here, the least you can do is humor my questions."

Alfred raised his hand to his temple, frowning faintly and in doing so casting quite a different light on his face. Arthur couldn't decide if it flattered him or not.

"Well, it's this economy…when things get to the point where the film industry can scarcely survive, well…you can imagine the situation that farmers find themselves in. My parents, they've been barely scraping by for a long time now, especially what with my going to college and all, and although they _know_ I'm here, to tell you the truth up until I got this role they weren't terrifically…_happy_ about it. I mean, they had already lost Matthew to Hollywood, and more importantly they really needed another reliable source of income, and don't get me wrong, I wanted to provide, but…" he frowned deeper, eyes focused on the thin film of scotch in the bottom of his glass. "Maybe I'm a bad person, laying everything on the line like I did, with no idea if it was going to pan out or not. To be honest, by the time you guys found me I was on the verge of packing up, _giving _up, I guess I should say, and using my – get this – my _American Studies _degree for some greater purpose or at least for a greater salary. In retrospect, I'm so lucky…I feel almost as if I were the very last person allowed on the very last lifeboat sailing away from a capsized ship, and the more I think about that the more I realize how stupid and risky I was being before. We're going to be alright now, but man, Arthur, I could have ruined everything…"

He glanced up from his glass to meet Arthur's gaze. His eyes were serious, their blue seemed darker, and there was an enrapturing earnestness to be seen in his whole expression, sculpted by the shadows cast by his furrowed brow and the slight jut of his slow lip and punctured by the fragments of amber light reflected upwards from the depths of his glass of scotch. He was an exceedingly handsome young man.

"…but in the end, by some ridiculous stroke of luck or fate or whatever, I didn't, and it's only now, in retrospect, that I realized how scary what I did really was. I was a fool, Arthur, a big fool, and I should have been scared stiff."

They were silent for a moment, and then Arthur threw back his head and laughed long and loud and clear, like he couldn't remember doing in ages – something which rather predictably irked Alfred. When Arthur was recovered, an accomplishment which took a good half a minute, he grinned up at Alfred through the moisture in his eyes and nearly dissolved again at the sight of his disgruntled and faintly hurt expression.

"Oh, Alfred," he chuckled, wiping the tears from his eyes. Fueled by laughter and alcohol, he followed this with a hearty and genuinely affectionate pat on the shoulder.

"You just don't know when to be scared, do you?"

* * *

><p>WHAT, WHO ON EARTH ALLOWED THIS TO GET SO HORRENDOUSLY LONG? Oh, right. It was me. Ahaha. My apologies. You've made it to the end; give yourself a pat on the back and some aspirin.<p>

And yes, apparently even in vaguely-dystopian near-future America the _Saw _franchise is still going strong. Go figure.

Eeeee lots of author's notage. Just more fodder for the word count, I suppose.

_**a/n **_**– **Hollywood, so dubbed in 1887 by the wife of the owner of the California ranch on which it is now located not because of the presence of holly or wood (of which there were neither) but rather merely because she heard the name from an acquaintance and was so taken with it that she re-titled her entire estate just so (trufax u gaiz), was gradually populated by small independent film studios approximately between the years of 1908 and 1913, the proprietors of which were quite literally _all _foreign, (the closest to American were Canadian; go figure) having been drawn to the country in the first place by none other than the American dream, which among other things bragged that America's streets were actually paved with gold rather than with the more realistic but less alluring truth: horse manure. Anyways, most of the immigrants who founded Hollywood were Jews (idk why but GOOO JUDAISM –I am Jewish -*woot*) hailing from such beloved Central and East European countries as Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, (now two countries, neither of which are personified) Hungary (who ironically happens to be central character in this here story), Poland (most notably, the Warner Brothers), and Germany. How do I know this crap? My lovely book on the history of American English (_Made in America, _it's fantastic) has a whole section on movies that I just read literally two days ago. YES.

_**A/n – **_Oh, sweet hypocrisy. If you haven't noticed, by this whole ordeal I'm poking fun at all us yaoi fangirls, among which I of course include myself; I'm _writing _it, for god's sake. Anyways, I believe we should keep in mind that the sorts of relationships we depict are probably (definitely) not what male gay relationships are actually like…especially when one considers that were are nearly all females and therefore will _never _experience a male on male relationship (barring exceptions provided by modern medicine xD) and therefore cannot ever hope to realistically depict one. Ahem. Also, I need to continue bringing up sexuality because Arthur cannot just be like: 'OH BTW ALFRED FUNNY STORY SO I'M LIEK GAY LOLOLOL' and Alfred cannot just be like: 'THAT'S KEWL LIEK ME 2 SO LET'S GO HAVE BUTTSECKS NOW OKEY?' I refuse.

_**A/n**__**– **_**NO, **you depraved perverts, this is not some oddly out-of-place sexual reference. _The Birds _and _Psycho _are both intellectual thrillers and many find them to be quite terrifying (if not a little outdated; _The Birds _more of made me laugh then scream but nonetheless was a wonderful movie), therefore it is masochistic of Alfred to count them amongst his favorite movies, as is indicated by their place next to the DVD player.

_**A/n **_**– **The mastermind behind both of the aforementioned titles is the great American director **Alfred **Hitchcock. He is most famous for FUCKING CRAZY suspense and FUCKING CREEPY intellectual thrillers. My favorite is _Rear Window. _

**French: **_'Sous-titre' _is the French equivalent of "_cut_!" (I looked it up u gaiz.)

"_Et d'ailleurs, mon cher, tout le monde a besoin de se reposer quelquefois." _

_And besides, my dear, everyone needs to rest every once in a while (sometimes). _

Oh, and I do apologize for the likely-unbearable BRO-ness of everything, but I absolutely love the bro craze (although _bro_tocol, a variation on the infamous _bro code,_ has probably already been conceived, it really did occur to me on its own and I am very proud of it) and I can imagine that Alfred does too. No one can deny that it totally fits with his personality.

Ahem. Anyways. Next chapter we get Artie's back story, and a ton of other characters, including the much-foreshadowed Gilbert and Antonio…we will also get to meet an example of the latter's "love of pretty little things", whose name just might start with an 'R' and end with a '–mano'…

…well, we'll see!

Review and you receive a dozen of Alfred's _bro_ses. xDD

Thanks to all for humoring me. TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, AWAY! *punches air*


	3. Chapter 3

~Turns out writing in your native language can be fun, you guys! xD

Seriously, though, I am having a fantastic time with writing _Keep Dreaming, America, _and it only gets better when I receive such thoughtful reviews from you guys. I love you all. And, as a testament to the extent of my love, here you have the newest chapter.

**In Brief: **Gilbert and Antonio have some interesting news for our little trio (er…quartet), Alfred speaks up, Arthur speaks out, and Alfred tries to do the same but doesn't quite get the chance.

**Updates: **Are now weekly, because RL is like, starting ( D: ), and I sort of have to show up to it. New chapters will be on **Saturday evenings,** sometimes a little earlier or later (in these cases I will strive for earlier) if there's some sort of weirdness in my schedule. However, barring crises, they will never be anything like days late.

**Length: **Grah, okay, I'm sorry, but this word count will be pretty standard of all of the chapters…which means we'll probably have something of a USUK novella on our hands when we're done, eheheh. Incidentally, chapter four will likely be the only chapter that is a little shorter, due to various reasons I cannot yet divulge.

**MY BAD: **It has been brought to my attention that in the previous chapter, Arthur referred to what Britons call a _cinema_ as a _theatre_. I offer my sincerest apologies to readers from across the pond, although really, why can't you all get your English right? Geez. xD Actually, I rather devotedly use the British spelling of the word _theatre _(to most Americans _theat__**er**_) for no better reason than because I like the way it looks, so I'm not really one to talk. Anyways, big thanks to **Alphine **for pointing this out to me in her review.

A few other matters before we begin.

**Antonio and Romano…**have an extensive conversation in Spanish and Italian when we first meet them. It is designed solely for lulz and has nothing to do with the actual plot, therefore I have included the translation in the A/Ns at the bottom of the page rather than the text. **A NOTE**: At first, Romano is the one speaking Spanish and Antonio, Italian, because I think that's romantic…although the conversation they are having couldn't quite be classified as such, heheheh…anyways, later Romano sort of stops speaking altogether, while Antonio slips into occasional Spanish. Again, translations are at the bottom of the page. I happen to own a Dirty Spanish book (yes, a whole book), so enjoy. xD

Also, I refer to Romano as Romano rather than Lovino because Romano is cuter.

**Matthew: **I have gotten so many questions regarding my characterization of Matthew, so I will attempt to answer them all here at once, especially seeing as he makes another appearance in this chapter. Yes, he's wholly and irreparably OOC, and I like him that way. I mainly created him as such to a) satisfy my own sick fantasies featuring badass!Canada, and b) to mock hipsters, which leads us to the matter of his clothing – I really choose it just for fun…well, that, and to be facetious. Follow Arthur's example and don't take Matthew too seriously, you guys. ^^

If you were wondering, yes, the plot is actually getting started now. Also, I have forgotten neither Alfred and Arthur's little word game nor Alfred's problem with the line _"I'm incapable!" _Both little plot threads will be fully resolved by the end of the story, just with a lot of dawdling between them, haha.

Let's see…is there anything more to bore you guys with? No, you say?

Damn. xD

Well, then, PLEASE ENJOY!

* * *

><p>"Arthur, <em>ma cherie femme, <em>you worried me last night when you did not grace our apartment with your presence! I have two questions that simply beg answers: firstly, whatever kept you from our sweet threshold -"

Arthur pressed the button a moment too late, and Francis managed to squeeze inside the elevator; fortunately Alfred was occupied chattering away with some nameless supporting actor who had the misfortune to be along for the ride, therefore there was a chance that Arthur could make it out of the elevator without suffering extreme humiliation.

A chance. Arthur could only hope that Francis wouldn't notice that he was wearing the same jacket as yesterday due to the fact that the cuts of Alfred's suits all matched the considerable breadth of his shoulders and therefore could never hope to fit Arthur.

"…and secondly, _ma cherie, _how can you bear to distress me so?"

"You're lucky I merely distress you rather than beat you silly like you deserve," he snapped. Francis sighed with all his characteristic air of melodrama and twirled a lock of hair around his index finger.

"Alas, you are too cruel, leaving the more pressing inquiry so unsatisfied!"

[ Arthur woke with his nose full of a smell that he would later identify as belonging uniquely to Alfred, though then he merely recognized it as being a not entirely unpleasant combination of strong coffee, cigarette smoke, the faintest trace of cologne, and the slight flavor of musk that seemed to inevitably associate itself with all young men. He blearily traced its source to the sheets tangled around him and then proceeded to stare stupidly at his hands for a while before he blinked several times, registered that he had a faint headache, and eventually managed to recall all the details regarding where he was.

The headache was surely a byproduct of that second glass of scotch and was hardly a bother compared to some of the hangovers Arthur had suffered in his time; he stood up without much difficulty and ran a hand through his hair, blinking again to rid the sleep from his eyes before he shuffled around Alfred's bedroom in search of a passageway to the bathroom.

The smell of grease and the sounds of oil crackling drifted into the room as Arthur stood in front of the mirror and splashed water on his face; he frowned resignedly at his mussed hair and the dark smudges beneath his eyes before taking a gulp of Alfred's mouthwash (bubblegum flavored, he noticed with faint disgust) and blindly pursuing the smell and sound of breakfast into the kitchen.

His eyes eagerly fell first on the stove, then darted from the skillets, which were all set to laughing with the sound of oil, to the kettle resting on the back burner - a reassuring omen regarding the possibility of tea. In addition, there was coffee brewing on the counter and a cutting board laid out, on which rested a collection of empty eggshells and a couple of thick, red slabs of tomato; a glance upwards revealed Alfred wielding the knife, dedicated now to cutting thin slices off a block of orange cheese, his hair rumpled and his glasses smudged over eyes darkened in concentration, feet bare against the tile floor.

Arthur abruptly halted in the doorway, swallowing rather thickly. Alfred glanced up at him and waved with his unoccupied hand, smiling at him distractedly.

"Sleep well, beautiful?"

Having not really registered the facetious quality to his greeting, Arthur merely nodded mutely and pulled out a chair for himself at the kitchen table. Alfred was just asking to be burnt, frying bacon while dressed like that. It was with considerable effort that Arthur drew his eyes away from the surprisingly gentle slope of his otherwise broad and powerful shoulders, the subtly pronounced muscles in his chest and stomach, the prominent arc of his collarbone, his lean but solid middle, the soft suggestions of baby fat resting just above the bones of his hips, the downy fringes of golden hair at the nape of his neck and trailing downwards at a slight incline just below his navel, and managed to apply his concentration elsewhere: to the kitchen décor, perhaps, or better yet, to the possibility of a cup of tea to take the edge off his headache, which had suddenly become accompanied by a slight dryness of the mouth and an uncomfortable warmth about his cheeks and neck.

"Dude, I can't believe you didn't chew me out for that last comment."

"I-I'm sorry?"

Alfred actually turned from the stove to give him a curious look. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Unless you count being extremely annoyed as an illness, no," Arthur frowned heavily at him. "Although I'll admit that I am just a touch hungover."

Alfred laughed and transitioned to dicing the tomatoes. "I hear that, man. But I gotta say, I kind of admire you," he dropped a handful of tomatoes into one of the skillets and reached for the cheese. "One and a half glasses of watered-down scotch leave me in considerable pain, and you drank two basically straight. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Boarding school," said Arthur dryly. "Let me assure you, it was nothing short of a necessary survival skill."

Alfred chuckled as he poked at whatever he was cooking with the edge of his spatula; gripping the handle of the skillet, he grabbed a plate and deftly flipped a thick omelet from the pan. Arthur tried to convince himself that his mouth wasn't watering as Alfred leaned over and pushed the plate towards him just as the kettle started to whistle.

"Tea," he said with a wink. "I don't have much, and it's not very good, but it's something. It's over there," he gestured to a cabinet with his unoccupied hand. "Mugs are over there," another gesture. "And silverware, to your right. That omelet will take a minute to cool so you might as well get your tea ready now."

Arthur had already retrieved the box of tea and a mug and, being careful to avoid Alfred's haphazard culinary maneuvers, reached out and flicked off the burner before he poured the steaming water over the tea bag, fetching a fork and knife while he waited for it to steep.

He fixed his tea and then attended to breakfast. Arthur would never have taken Alfred for the culinary type, but the eggs were delicious and soon another plate, piled high with bacon, was slid in front of his nose. Alfred sat down across from him with a grin, bursting the yolks of his fried eggs helping himself to the bacon, still crackling faintly with oil.

"So," he spoke with his mouth full. "Is it any good?"

Arthur swallowed very deliberately and took a brief sip of his tea. "Yes, I suppose," he stared at his plate for a moment. "Thank you, Alfred."

Alfred paused with his mug of coffee raised halfway to his lips, smiling at Arthur over the rim. "Dude, come on, it's the least I can do after landing you here for the night."

"I won't argue with you there," Arthur delicately cut apart the last of his eggs and put them in his mouth. "I don't suppose there's a shower included in this whole ordeal?"

"Sure thing. You've probably already found the bathroom, so go right ahead."

"Thank you." Arthur drained the last of his tea, stood, and pushed in his chair before placing his dishes in the sink ("and for god's sake, put a shirt on when you fry bacon. You're lucky you didn't injure yourself") and heading where Alfred directed, Alfred's shouted claim that Arthur was merely jealous of his _kickass _physique following him down the hall.

Upon pulling aside the shower curtain Arthur found that Alfred used dandruff shampoo, and that he thought that oddly charming. He briskly washed and rinsed his hair, indulged in a few brief moments beneath the hot water, and climbed out, drying off with a diminutive hair towel because Alfred seemed to not be in possession of any full-body varieties. He frowned at himself in the steamy mirror, used his fingers to comb his damp hair into place as effectively as possible, rearranged his eyebrows and, with a faint sigh of distaste, slipped back into the t-shirt and pajama pants he had borrowed from Alfred the night before.

He made his way back to Alfred's bedroom and immediately went in search of his closet, upon the discovery of which he immediately began to rifle through his suits only to find that they all were much too big in the shoulders, although Arthur did manage to find a shirt that almost fit him correctly.

"I'm borrowing a shirt, Alfred! And probably a tie as well," he called, "and to dispel any confusion, I'm not asking for permission to do so but rather informing you that I'm doing it!"

Hearing the faint laugh and muffled affirmative from the other room, Arthur shrugged out of his borrowed pajamas and deftly buttoned up the oxford. Unfortunately, Alfred was much too tall and long-legged for any of his pants to remotely fit, and Arthur was left to hope that a fresh shirt and tie would distract Francis' attention away from his otherwise recycled ensemble.

He stole a clean pair of socks and grabbed his shirt and tie from the night before, crisply folding them as he stepped into the living room just as Alfred brushed past him in the other direction, presumably on his way to get freshen up now that the bedroom was empty. Arthur sat down on the sofa and pulled his socks on before making his way to the foyer to lace up his shoes and slip into his jacket. He checked his reflection in the small hanging mirror, curled his upper lip in distaste, and made a halfhearted attempt to fix his hair. Alfred soon joined him in the hallway, only remembering to take along his costume jacket when Arthur sharply reminded him to do so. They stepped outside and Alfred grinned at him as he locked the door behind them.

"Best sleepover ever, am I right?"

"Goodness, Alfred, have you never been laid before?"

Alfred threw back his head and laughed as they began to descend the stairs. "Geez, Artie, getting laid doesn't count as a sleepover."

"Don't call me that, and I don't see why it doesn't count as a sleepover."

"Aw, come on, now you're just dirtying everything up. Sleepovers aren't sexy, that's sick. They're like, sacred - sleepovers are for _bros, _man."

Arthur resisted giving voice to the myriad of comments regarding the various possible misunderstandings to be made in Alfred's previous statement in favor of merely rolling his eyes.

"Oh, Alfred, you are so naïve." ]

"…Arthur, _s'il te plaît, je ne puis endurer un moment plus de ceci, _if you do not answer me soon I fear I will begin to suspect the worst of you!"

Arthur sighed and cast Francis a skeptical glance. "Feel free to do so."

The elevator doors opened with a soft sigh, which Arthur echoed in sheer relief - he was nearly free, he had nearly escaped the morning commute without having to explain his humiliating ordeal to Francis, and now they could finally, finally return to their work.

Not a moment after he stepped into the hallway, Arthur was assaulted by a very much overexcited Elizaveta, who barreled towards him apparently out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck violently and causing him to stumble backwards into Francis, who took this opportunity to reach downwards and give him a sharp pinch on the ass; he let out an involuntary cry of surprise and anger and clearly heard Alfred's failed attempts at trying to control his laughter from behind.

"_Cela," _crowed Francis with a leer of victory, "was for keeping secrets from me, _mon cher."_

In an effort to conceal his humiliation, Arthur glared venomously at him, though the effect was perhaps lessened as he scrabbled ineffectually against Elizaveta's hold on his shoulders.

"At least you're referring to me in the masculine case again," he spat, loosening one of Elizaveta's hands from the back of his neck only for her to weave her fingers together again, this time more firmly. He gave a sigh of exasperation. "For Christ's sake, child, what the hell has gotten into you?"

She lifted her face to beam up at him. "Arthur, we've done it! Or, almost done it."

"Done – or almost done - what, pray tell?"

She laughed giddily and finally lowered her arms from his neck to balance her hands on his shoulders. "Paris! London! We've almost done it!"

Although, upon hearing this, Francis gasped with delight, Arthur found himself still faintly confused.

"Excuse me?"

Elizaveta rolled her eyes. "Don't you get it, Arthur? Gil's secretary just called, and they want to talk to us – all of us – about a budget expansion. We could really do it, we could really get the money! _Oh," _she let out a soft sigh and clasped a hand to her breast. "I've always wanted to see Paris for myself; I haven't been to France since I was a girl!"

Francis leapt in front of Arthur and clasped her hands in his ecstatically. "_Oui, _my precious girl, together you and I shall tour everything the city of love has to offer! The Tower, the Louvre, dinner on the Seine, and then, who could forget, best of all – _le cinema!_"

Elizaveta giggled. "And Alfred, too, of course."

Alfred grinned wide and shot her a thumbs-up; even so, Arthur thought he was being uncharacteristically calm regarding this whole situation.

"Please, my friends, before we injure ourselves with excitement," he began dryly, forever the voice of reason. "We still have to actually swing the deal with the bosses. And…" he added, lest they should forget. "I should certainly hope that I am included in all these absolutely ridiculous plans."

Elizaveta and Francis broke from their celebrations to roll their eyes in unison.

"_Eh bien entendu, _Arthur, that much was already implied."

* * *

><p>The muffled ring of a telephone against a background of heavy metal music.<p>

"_Antonio…el teléfono…está…oye, ¡suéltame, tengo que cogerlo! -"_

A few muffled bumping noises and another unintelligible cry of irritation. From the corner of his eye Arthur saw Alfred raise his eyebrows; the boy's nose was nearly pressed to the door of the office in his fascination and Arthur had to resist a smirk.

The telephone rang again; the music still thudded in the background.

"_Mm, caro pomodorito, ignoralo; non vedi che ci sono cose piú importante di fare –_

"_Cállate, bastardo, ¿qué crees que hagas? No puedo – mmf – no puedo perder mi tiempo contigo así - nng - ¡chíngate! hijo de la gran puta vieja, n-no ves que…¡tonto!, détente, te lo he dicho antes, ¡no me beses allí! - Antonio, el teléfono_, _tengo que cogerlo…" _

Alfred glanced down rather worriedly at Arthur, as if to ask him if this was typical of their CEOs; Arthur let his heavy sigh take care of the explaining.

"_Mmm, dai, il mio pomodorito…niente piú di un bacio per favore, poi non ti chiedo piú, ti lo prometto! Ma adesso, per favore, non mi uscire, volgio che tu stia qui con me per un po' piú –_

"_Pero...pero alguien nos llama y…y…ahh, Antonio, ¡si no te detienes__VOY A DEJARTE HARAPIENTO!"_

Rolling his eyes and sighing exaggeratedly, Francis rapped crisply on the door with his knuckles.

"Gilbert, if you can hear this over the racket in there, _c'est moi et mes amis, _let us in!"

"Gilbert?" Alfred blinked in surprise. "You call your bosses by their first names?"

Arthur nodded but didn't get the chance to explain; the music suddenly fell quiet and the previously inaudible undertone of cursing, footsteps and a voice raised high in nervousness could be heard more clearly in the following silence.

"_¿Qu-qué, hay alguien a la puerta?"_

"_Romano, ti lo ho detto già, ignorala e metti la tua attenzione in me e il amore che sto per darti!" _

"_Pero nos verá -" _A squeal of surprise. "_¿QUÉ HACES?, ¡NO ME TOQUES ALLÍ!"_

The footsteps were getting closer; they were soon followed by a shout asking that they hold on just one minute more, then the rattling of keys, a frustrated oath whispered in what must have been German, seeing how Elizaveta turned faintly pink around the ears **a/n**, and then finally, the door swung open.

"I think I understand that whole first-name basis thing better now," Alfred muttered, blushing faintly. Arthur nodded tiredly.

"Yes, I'm afraid we're not much for formality here."

The first thing their eyes found had been Gilbert, who looked discomfited and faintly perturbed, his silver hair ruffled and a faint crease between his eyebrows, wearing his shirtsleeves with his tie hanging loosely from his collar. Their gazes had then traveled deeper within the office, eventually falling on the massive desk at the back, framed against an enormous window, where Antonio was enthroned with his unfortunate secretary splayed across his lap, his hand unabashedly jammed beneath crisp black skirts and oversized lacy bloomers, smirking shamelessly down at his furiously struggling captive.

Romano's legs were splayed to either side of his body, kicking madly in the air and revealing a full spectacle of silky garters and lace trim. The tightly ribbed bodice of his ensemble had slipped down across his chest, allowing a smattering of angry red marks to be seen littering his shoulders and collarbone. His little black cap was askew over his mussed hair and his face glowed a brilliant red with both fury and, presumably, a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.

Arthur coughed quietly, Alfred continued blushing, Elizaveta muffled a squeal of excitement behind her fist and and Francis let out a guffaw of delight to see amaid hailing from his motherland so disposed; as for Antonio, he merely winked at them and slipped his hand from Romano's bloomers with a little flourish.

"_Bienvenidos todos," _he beamed, spreading his arms in welcome and allowing Romano to right himself, straighten his cap, and pull down his skirt so it reached mid-thigh, but not to depart his lap. "What a pleasure it is to see you all here today."

"Yeah guys, it's awesome, especially considering the news we have," added Gilbert, turning from the door and gesturing for them to follow. "Hey, Feli, put my music back on, but at the lowest setting this time, yeah?"

Feliciano, the resident assistant who was not subjected to suffering ordeals such as the one laid out before them, nodded eagerly and turned towards the massive stereo installed in one corner of the room. He tweaked the dial and the office filled with the screaming of Gilbert's heavy metal collection. Antonio gestured to four chairs set up before their desk, and Arthur smirked, not missing how the tips of Elizaveta's ears turned faintly pink when Gilbert, in a sudden seizure of gallantry, swooped in to pull her chair out for her. Alfred was actually adjusting his glasses in his disbelief regarding the spectacle of Romano, who had still not been allowed to flee the scene, and had to be hissed at by Arthur before he remembered himself and took his seat.

"So, you guys..." Elizaveta could clearly scarcely contain her excitement. "Whatever could this be about?"

"_Oui, _we are simply dying to know."

Antonio and Gilbert grinned at each other just as Romano finally broke under the overwhelming public humiliation and hid his face in Antonio's collarbone with a faint whimper.

"Well, thanks to all the hubbub generated by _querido Alfred, _our _chico de oro, _so to speak," Antonio winked, slowly running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Romano's neck. "We are so very pleased to inform you that - "

"You're fucking going to Europe, you guys!" cried Gilbert, slamming his hands down on the desk for emphasis. "How fucking awesome is this?"

His outburst and the cheering that followed generated an enormous, unidentifiable ruckus to their right; Feliciano suddenly became very distressed, darting towards the dark curtain that sectioned off part of the office and whipping it aside to reveal an enormous birdcage positively overflowing with agitated chicks, yellow and downy and provoked into a frenzy of chirping by the excitement that had passed on the other side of the curtain.

"_C'est certainement une addition nouvelle…"_ Arthur heard Francis murmuring to himself incredulously. Elizaveta had her hands clamped over her mouth in an effort to repress her hysteria and Alfred was again adjusting his glasses, his jaw completely slack with shock.

"_Accidenti!" _Feliciano cried in panicky Italian,fluttering nervously in front of the cage._"I miei pulcini, tranquillo, tranquillo! I miei cari, non vi preocupiate, sta bene, sta bene, vi lo prometto!"_

"Aw shit," Gilbert actually levered himself over the desk, landing on the rug beside Arthur's chair. "Here, Feliciano, let me handle this one. They're overexcited, they need their daddy…" And with that he ran to the cage and pulled the curtain back into place.

By then Alfred's mouth was actually hanging open and it took Arthur's shooting him a glare to get him to shut it again. Antonio sighed and transitioned to rubbing between Romano's shoulder blades, exposed by the low cut of his uniform.

"_De verdad nunca exactamente deja de asombrarme_…" he murmured before turning his attention back to them. "Anyways, my dears, you will first depart for Paris, stay there for a week of shooting, return to _Los Angeles," _he rolled the title from his tongue altogether purposefully **a/n**, "for another handful of days, and then it is off to London with you. A week or so there and then your sojourns are complete. All the reservations are made…you, and you, and you!" He gestured to Elizaveta, Francis, and Alfred. "…depart for _la ciudad de amor _in nothing more than several days!"

Francis and Elizaveta exchanged a worried glance and Arthur made an honest effort to sink into his chair; Alfred, however, was hardly so tactful.

"What about Arthur? He's coming too, right?"

Antonio blinked before seeming to realize something.

"Oh, of course, you all are rather the inseparable trio, aren't you?"

"Try quartet," said Alfred, rather sharply, his eyes suddenly hard behind his glasses, and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat for whatever reason.

Antonio chuckled good-humoredly. "_Claro, claro. _Anyways, it was careless of me to forget your bond – I'm afraid that in the business world, especially this particular business world, such things, however valuable they may be, are easily overlooked. I'm so sorry, but the studio isn't willing to pay the traveling expenses of anyone who isn't absolutely crucial to the production. Really," His brow crinkled as he took in their expressions. "Arthur, please accept my sincerest apologies. If there was something I could do, I would; of that I assure you. I truly _am _sorry."

He said so with complete earnestness and Francis, Arthur and Elizaveta sighed resignedly. There was nothing for it, it didn't make sense for Arthur to come along at the expense of the studio – he was just the screenwriter after all, if it weren't for their unusual friendship he wouldn't even be involved in the production at all, not anymore. He should be thankful he was able to enjoy as much as he did.

Alfred, however, was not so inclined.

"What do you mean, _not absolutely crucial?" _His hands were balled in fists on the arms of his chair. "Aside from Francis and Elizaveta, and the actual actors, I guess, I can't think of anyone who's more important to this movie than Arthur! You can't really understand it until you've seen him work," He clearly had begun to realize his impudence and averted his gaze to his shoes, speaking more quietly. "Not only does he love this project the most of all of us, but he _gets _it, understands every little bit of it and how it's all supposed to fit together. To be honest, I've never met anyone so dedicated before, a-and…" he faltered. "Well, I can't imagine what could be more important than that."

Arthur knew he must have been blushing furiously; he could feel the heat at the base of his neck and his cheeks, but as to whether for embarrassment and anger or…a strange sensation of pride, he thought it could be called…or a mixture of the three he wasn't sure.

To his credit, Antonio looked genuinely heartbroken.

"I believe every word, Alfred," he said sadly; Romano had lifted his face from his shoulder again and was regarding them silently. "But there really is nothing I can do. _Eso es._"

* * *

><p>Arthur glared into his half-empty glass of gin.<p>

"You're a fool, you know that?"

Alfred fiddled sheepishly with the peanuts laid out by the bartender.

"So I've been told."

"You're damn lucky Antonio has a weakness for emotional appeals; if you had a _normal _boss, well, I can't possibly imagine where your ass would be, but certainly not on a first-class flight to Paris, that much I_ can_ tell you."

"Dude, it was so nice of them to get us first-class seats -"

Arthur glared at him.

"…oh. Sorry," Alfred popped a peanut in his mouth and chewed pensively. "Man, this sucks," he said after a while.

Ah, the grand culmination of his thought process.

"So you've expressed." Arthur took another long draw from his glass and frowned to see that the level of gin was rapidly sinking. "Where's the blasted barkeep?" he muttered, scanning the dimly lit bar. "I need another."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"Your point?"

"It's two in the afternoon, we've barely done any work today, and you've already had two glasses of straight gin."

"…"

"Arthur."

"I suppose that's relatively valid," Arthur sighed and drained his glass, setting it down on the bar and gazing mournfully at it for a moment. "Although, don't you think it looks a little lonely?"

"The bowl of peanuts will be its friend," Alfred pushed the aforementioned objects together. "There, problem solved."

"I hate you."

Alfred smiled at him tiredly.

"Don't I know it."

Arthur bit down on his lower lip; perhaps it was merely the effect of the alcohol, but he found that he regretted being so sharp with Alfred, especially after his display back at the studio.

"Alfred," he began carefully. "What you said back there…about me…I…well…it was a foolish thing to do, but nevertheless I'm…well, thank you. I'm…rather grateful. Your folly came to no end but still…" He bit harder down on his lower lip. Damn that gin. "Say, Alfred, not that your opinion of me is of any importance, but…were you, ah, well…were you serious, per se? Don't bother with my feelings; like I said before, I couldn't care less about your opinion. I'm merely curious, in fact, it's probably the fault of the gin, to tell you the truth. I'm afraid I'm an inquisitive drunk – er, tipsy - man."

Alfred blinked. "Of course I was serious." He followed this with a genuine smile and Arthur swallowed thickly.

"Er…well then…again, thank you."

Now Alfred positively beamed. Arthur coughed and focused on the surface of the bar.

"Aw, Artie, you're sweet," he cut off Arthur's disgruntled reaction to being labeled with an endearment more appropriate for a girlfriend or a child than a respected colleague with a hearty smack on the back.

"But please," he grinned, and Arthur blamed the weakness in his knees on the alcohol in his system. "Don't mention it."

And thus marked the moment when Arthur admitted to himself that when it came to Alfred, there most certainly was a little more to be perceived than a handsome-faced annoyance.

* * *

><p>The next two days followed relatively peacefully. Although Alfred still hadn't managed to master the one line he had enlisted Arthur to assist him with, they continued with filming nonetheless and when Gilbert announced that he and Antonio were planning on hosting an enormous farewell party for the cast and crew of <em>Keep Dreaming, America <em>at their enormous shared mansion **a/n**, the idea was greeted with an enthusiasm that saw itself subdued only slightly in a halfhearted effort to spare Arthur's feelings.

The date of the party was fixed on the Friday before the departure, and the entire studio was in somewhat of an uproar beforehand: Gilbert and Antonio were nothing short of notorious for their celebrations, and regardless of actual business association, generally everyone stationed at World Series Entertainment, from the least-important assistants to the most acclaimed directors, felt obliged to and did attend their extravaganzas. This usually resulted in mass chaos, drunkenness, and a substantial count of wild one-night stands, the near-unbelievable stories of which could still be overheard haunting the hallways of the studio for weeks, even months, afterwards. If they were lucky, a brawl might also break out at one point or another, and if they were luckier still, Romano would become involved, much to the amusement of Antonio and the distress of Feliciano. Hopefully Gilbert would remember to open their pool – in the past, when Arthur would get bored, he had always made a bit of a sport out of counting the number of drunken people who dove in still decked out in their eveningwear.

Alfred spent Friday's break hours absorbing similar stories from his regular gaggle of assistants and makeup artists, occasionally crying out in disbelief or throwing his head back in laughter, his eyes shining with anticipation and his smile repeatedly stunning his admirers. His acting was a little distracted that day but so was Elizaveta's, and Arthur couldn't claim to have been entirely focused either – he was less engrossed in his script and their performances than in his fond remembrances of the cocktails, which were in as exotic as they were strong with rich Spanish liquor, that Antonio usually supplied to his guests in great abundance.

Finally, their work was done, and Arthur and Francis hurried back to their apartment to shower, shave, and dress in enough time so that they could drive leisurely and arrive at the estate approximately half an hour late. Because they could only afford a studio apartment they were constantly having to pick their way through the explosion of luggage Francis had prepared for the day ahead; Arthur tripped several times and suffered a large bruise on his elbow but in the end they both managed to wash up and salvage freshly pressed suits and ties from the chaos. Francis had saved his favorite, characteristically ostentatious violet suit for the occasion and wore his hair at the nape of his neck by a ribbon, whereas Arthur made his disdain regarding this choice of dress clearly known and opted for understated pinstripes, hoping that his hair would not look quite as uncontrolled as it usually did or that at least the lighting at the party would be flattering.

"Say, Arthur," said Francis as he unlocked the door to their car and facetiously opened the passenger side for him. Arthur flipped him off and sat down, pulling his seatbelt across his chest as Francis finished his thought. "…how do you think our dear Alfred will look tonight?"

Arthur glanced up at him curiously as he settled himself in front of the wheel. "How, exactly, should I know?"

Francis smirked. "I was not so much asking for a fact as for your opinion, my dear."

Arthur shrugged. "A suit, I should hope. Otherwise he may feel rather out of place, and that would be awkward. I would ask why you're so curious but it's really not so hard to guess." He rolled his eyes as Francis started the ignition and began to pull out onto the street while simultaneously acquiring and lighting up a cigarette.

"Mm, he is terribly handsome, is he not?"

Arthur gestured for Francis to give him a light, balancing the cigarette between his lips. "I suppose, yes. However," he raised his eyebrows. "I certainly didn't think he was your type. He seems too…" Arthur blew out a cloud of smoke, gesturing with his hand to express his inability to find the correct word. "…I'm not sure. Clean cut? Just plain…good?"

Francis laughed and took a long draw on his cigarette. "Why, whatever could you be trying to imply, _mon ami?" _

"Shut it with the French, you know I don't like it."

"_Oui, je le sais meilleur que quelqu'un," _he tapped the wheel pensively. "But I must admit, you're right about one thing – Alfred certainly is not my type of boy. I need one who has slightly more of a…a head about him, so to speak."

Arthur refrained from commenting that perhaps Francis didn't understand the boundaries of Alfred's intelligence as well as he believed in favor of merely asking him which specie of head he meant to imply, to which Francis laughed appreciatively and gave Arthur the answer of a suggestive pat on the thigh, which earned him a sharp swat at the back of the head and a light dusting of cigarette ash across his lap.

They briefly merged onto the freeway before cutting off into one of Los Angeles' ritziest neighborhoods. Almost immediately upon turning onto the first residential street their ears were met with the low, faintly foreboding thuds of Gilbert's heavy metal at full blast, punctuated by an occasional whoop or scream, from a bit further off in the distance.

"I wonder how Romano will be dressed tonight," leered Francis over the increasingly persistent throbbing of the music, which only increased as they neared their destination.

"I almost hope it's the tomato costume again; nothing else quite ever compared after that."

Francis chuckled; he was nearly shouting now and they could see the twinkling of lights not far ahead. "Ah, but how Antonio dislikes repeating ensembles – alas, what can one say, the man positively thrives on creativity!"

Arthur snorted and unceremoniously chucked his cigarette into the bushes surrounding the estate, where it would no doubt be joined by a great deal of alcohol-laced vomit and discarded clothing as the night wore on. Francis parked at the end of an already massive line of cars and with a little bow opened the passenger door for Arthur, who made sure to step heavily on his foot as he emerged from the car. Headlights illuminated the space behind them, and when Arthur squinted he could make out Alfred behind the wheel and…Matthew in the passenger seat, his arms folded across his chest and his nose lifted faintly in the air with his typical air of forced boredom. Lovely.

As soon as he had clicked off the ignition, Alfred practically exploded from the car and barreled towards Arthur, grabbing him in a painful reinterpretation of what had been previously dubbed as _the classic bro hug_ – Arthur had been made to suffer through Alfred's complete dictionary definition of this term, which included, of course, what exactly qualified it as _classic_, but could recall little more than it's ridiculous appellation.

"Dude, this is going to be _totally wicked!_" Alfred was proclaiming ecstatically. Arthur faintly registered that his feet were not touching the ground.

"Yes, yes, Alfred, I cannot possibly express my excitement to you," he pushed ineffectually at his shoulder. "More of for temporary lack of lung capacity than for lack of sufficient vocabulary, however."

"Oh, sorry," Alfred released him, beaming. "I just tend to get a little overexcited."

"Yes, yes, I'm quite aware," Arthur sighed, fixing his suit jacket and attempting to straighten the fresh wrinkles in his trousers with his hands, an effort which he quickly deemed as hopeless and abandoned in favor of running his eyes briefly across Alfred to discover gleaming dress shoes, a pale button-down tucked into crisply pressed slacks, an elegant tie and rather dapper tweed blazer, neatly combed hair and, most miraculously of all, clean glasses.

"Well, at least you look halfway-presentable," he muttered as he struggled with his upset tie. "I'm rather surprised."

Alfred grinned, clearly choosing to interpret this as a complement. "Hey dude, you too…but, I gotta say, pinstripes, really?" At Arthur's questioningly raised eyebrows he laughed and clapped him on the shoulder heavily. "Geez, Artie, you're such an old man!"

Arthur awarded him a venomous look. "Classic will always be in style."

"Tell that to Hollywood," Alfred winked at him before springing forwards to retrieve his brother, who had become engaged in conversation with Francis in the meantime. Arthur rolled his eyes for nothing more than his own benefit, made one last attempt at the creases in his trousers, and stepped forwards to join the others as they made their way up the winding driveway and across the manicured lawn, already having to navigate between a few partygoers engaged in some sort of drunken exchange – whether of friendship, anger or lust was hard to tell - at the front door.

Francis knocked and the door swung open to reveal a familiarly angry, blushing face. Given his current occupation, it would have perhaps been more appropriate to break out the maid ensemble for this particular situation rather than a casual sojourn in the office; regardless, Romano was fetchingly decked out in a crisp nurse's uniform, complete with a jaunty little cap, snow-white stockings and scarlet pumps. Unlike the rest of them, Matthew was unaccustomed to this sight and had to pause in the doorframe for a moment, confused. Romano glared, daring him to comment or otherwise express his surprise, and after a moment Matthew merely gave the faintest shrug of his shoulders and followed them into the chaos.

The estate that Antonio and Gilbert shared with positively enormous and seemed better suited to nothing other than partying; the windows stretched from the floors to the summits of the ceilings, which dizzyingly high above their heads and glittered with crystal chandeliers, while elegant swirling staircases and winding hallways flowed with eddies of people as rivers do with water. The foyer opened into a grand, gleaming golden parlor, which proved to be both the source of the painfully loud music and the home of the coveted wet bar. Servers darted to and fro balancing trays of appetizers on their shoulders, somehow dodging the masses of people and avoiding tripping across rich decorations that embellished every available surface. In short, the entire place was positively swathed with extravagance.

"Jesus," breathed Alfred, straightening his glasses in that terribly gauche fashion of his.

"Not like back on the farm, eh?" Arthur smirked at him; he caught a glimpse of Elizaveta fighting her way through the crowds and waved at her when she finally burst into the foyer and barreled towards Arthur, Alfred and Francis, managing to sling her arms around all three of their necks at once.

As if by magic, Gilbert abruptly appeared behind her, a cocktail balanced in his hand in a similar fashion to the jaunty smirk balanced on his lips. He wore a dark red oxford opened at the throat, and it had slipped down slightly across his shoulder. Altogether he already looked to be considerably drunk.

"Hey, you guys, it's so fucking awesome that you're here!" he grinned, and when Elizaveta released them he immediately slung an arm around her shoulders, nearly spilling the contents of his martini glass in the process. She blushed faintly but gave a small, pleased smile and delicately plucked the glass from his fingers by the stem. Arthur and Francis exchanged a knowledgeable glance while Alfred returned Gilbert's offered fist bump enthusiastically.

Another man suddenly materialized at Elizaveta's elbow; he was taller and slenderer than Gilbert and wore an immaculately pressed white linen suit. He was holding two glasses of white wine in his hands and handed one to Elizaveta with a slight arch of the brow, presumably designed to express his disdain towards the other man hanging from her shoulders.

"Oh, thank you, Roderich," she smiled, and gently shrugged away from Gilbert's hold, the pink tinge at the tips of her ears and the tops of her cheeks more pronounced. "My, it seems you boys are trying to drink me beside myself, mm?"

Gilbert made the first of rock while Roderich, whom Arthur could now identify as the very talented composer of the soundtrack of _Keep Dreaming, America, _merely chuckled reservedly. Not one to be ignored in moments of subtlety, Alfred overtly offered his hand and took Roderich's eagerly while loudly explaining that he had encountered him a few times around the studio but never really had the chance to make his acquaintance properly, and wasn't that a shame? and Arthur had to admit that as much as the boy's behavior irked him personally, and as much as it seemed to vaguely alarm Roderich, he really was being perfectly charming.

"Christ, do I need a drink," he muttered, and tapped Francis on the arm to signal his necessity. To his dismay, Matthew and he had resumed their conversation and thus the former followed them towards the wet bar. They fought their way through the pulsating throngs of people and eventually landed several stools at the bar; Arthur immediately ordered a shot of tequila and Francis snorted, stating dryly that Arthur obviously wasn't planning on wasting any time in accomplishing his goal, a comment which Arthur merely shrugged away as he accepted the glass from the bartender and downed it in one gulp, savoring the faint burning at the back of his throat as he pounded the glass back down on the counter and immediately requested a gin and tonic, emphasis on the gin if you please.

"That's an odd combination," murmured Matthew (though he really more of had to shout to be heard over the music) as he received his cosmopolitan and took a delicate sip. It was then that Arthur fully absorbed his outfit: his suit jacket looked as though it was compiled of a thousand different scraps of fabric, all purposefully designed to clash with one another, and he had chosen to pair this particular piece with dark green skinny jeans (they were fashionably torn at the knees), yet another of his evidently-endless v-necked shirts, and tasseled combat boots, an article that previously Arthur would not have thought to have existed.

"Indeed, I thought you'd appreciate it…" The sight of his ridiculous ensemble spurred Arthur on; he simply couldn't resist. "Being outside of the mainstream and all that."

Matthew blinked in shock and was opening his mouth when Alfred suddenly thrust his elbows onto the counter between Francis and Arthur, inadvertently blocking the route of his brother's retort, and ordered a bourbon. Francis glanced down distastefully at Alfred, who was by then creating quite a sense of claustrophobia in the already overcrowded space, before he gestured for Matthew to move one stool further down the bar and then followed suit, freeing up the space next to Arthur. Alfred sat down and accepted his drink with a little salute to the bartender that Arthur supposed he must have considered to be polite.

"Quite a party, huh, Artie?" Alfred paused for a moment, eyes wide. "Holy shit man, did you hear that? It totally rhymed!"

"Indeed," said Arthur dryly as an answer to both statements, finding himself very grateful to witness the arrival of his gin and tonic. "And this is only the beginning."

"Of what, the rhyming?"

Arthur shot him a long look over the rim of his glass.

"The _party, _Alfred."

"Oh, right," Alfred grinned, only partly paying attention in his eagerness to scan the room and get the lay of the land. "Dude, I had no idea this many people even worked at World Series Entertainment!"

"They don't," murmured Arthur, turning a little in his stool to follow Alfred's gaze. "Your brother's here, isn't he? And you're certainly not the only one to bring along an unwarranted guest. Anyone who has the slightest chance of getting into one of these events will absolutely try – they're notorious, and by that I'm referring to both the parties and the people."

"Yeah, but Matthew's gotta be an exception, I mean, he's at the studio all the time - "

"Lamentably," murmured Arthur below the volume of the music.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, don't trouble your pretty little head." He gave Alfred a patronizing pat and was met with a pout. "Oh, stop with that. You look like a child. Well, I suppose that's fitting – you are a child, after all." He smirked and drained his glass. Alfred's frown deepened.

"Come on, Artie, what did you say?"

"My name is _Arthur, _and I told you, it's not important."

"Alright, then, _Arthur, _what did you say?"

"Hm? What are you talking about? The bourbon must be getting to you already; I haven't said a word."

"Arthur! Come on, I hate not knowing stuff, especially -"

"If that's the case you must lead a very unhappy existence."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Oh man, dude, that's a good one. Do you write this stuff down or something, because I swear it's brilliant!" He took a quick gulp from his bourbon before he resumed his previous thought. "_As _I was saying, tell me because I hate not knowing stuff, especially when it comes to you!"

Arthur paused. Surely the music must be tricking his ears.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said…" Alfred suddenly faltered. "Well, um, I said that I - "

Suddenly Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder and turned in his stool to be greeted with a familiar face. He grinned and leapt up from the bar, grasping Kiku's hand in his as he affectionately clapped him on the shoulder – inadvertently reminding himself of Alfred, he realized, grimacing inwardly as he beamed outwardly.

"You bastard, how fantastic it is to see you!" Still smiling, he gestured for Kiku to join them at the bar. "But to be honest I least of all expected to encounter you here, you bloody rogue, seeing as you've never been much for these sorts of affairs. To what, pray tell, do Gilbert and Antonio owe the pleasure?"

"Well, I'm very glad to see you too, Arthur-san," said Kiku in a voice that was barely perceptible above the music, taking the seat offered to him and folding his hands on the counter. "As you know, ever since my promotion in the costume department I've been very busy, but as of late," A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I've enjoyed another promotion; I've been appointed to handling the…ahm…uniforms…designated for the bosses' personal assistants."

Arthur paused midway through ordering another drink.

"So…you mean you're the one responsible for the…"

"For engineering costumes that would disguise the rather…less well-kempt aspects of Romano-kun's anatomy? Indeed. I was the one who employed the stockings and introduced the concept of knee socks."

To this, Alfred reacted.

"Dude, you mean you singlehandedly stopped the leg hair?"

Kiku nodded; the very picture of humility.

"Wow, man, I mean, I've only heard tale of those horrors but that was enough," Alfred's eyes were wide with admiration. "You're a god, seriously. But…" he smirked. "How does a dude who's obviously as cool as you get to know Arthur?"

Arthur spluttered indignantly into his fresh gin and tonic and Kiku chuckled quietly.

"Arthur-san and myself? We're old friends from boarding school in Europe, but I left the school early to return to Japan and we haven't been able to see each other often since," Kiku smiled faintly at Arthur. "It's wonderful that we ended up at the same studio." He seemed to remember something and abruptly became very nervous. "Ah, you must forgive me, I've been terribly rude!" Alfred looked faintly confused as Kiku bowed frantically in his seat. "Pardon my not introducing myself," he extended his hand to Alfred. "My name is Kiku Honda."

Alfred grinned and took his hand enthusiastically.

"Alfred F. Jones! Totally thrilled as well as totally humbled to meet the guy who singlehandedly made audiences with the bosses a little less painful for all of us."

"That," sighed Arthur, lifting his glass. "I can drink to."

Their conversation continued along the same fashion for a while before Kiku remembered that while he was fitting Romano for the evening he had slipped into Antonio's extensive film library and discovered a particularly elusive volume that Arthur absolutely needed to see; Alfred told them to go have their _old-dude _fun, that he was going to explore, and when Kiku bade Arthur goodnight around midnight and he returned to the parlor, where the party had degenerated into insensible chaos, he spotted the boy chatting animatedly with Gilbert, Elizaveta and Roderich, who looked faintly perturbed as Alfred swung his arms in wide circles to illustrate whatever point he was making. Arthur smirked, approached the bar and, ignoring Matthew and Francis, who were still engaged in an evidently engrossing conversation, carried his third gin and tonic of the evening to the only unoccupied sofa he could find, making sure to brush off the fabric before he sat down as a precaution.

To his surprise, not more than a few seconds had passed before he felt the cushions below him sink in response to a weight at his left. Arthur didn't have to turn around to know who had joined him.

"And so we meet again, Alfred," he said drolly. "Aren't you enjoying the party?"

"Oh, man, _totally,_ dude! It's so awesome, dude, I can barely believe it!"

At Arthur's questioning glance, understanding dawned on Alfred's expression.

"Well," he shrugged, grinning at him impishly. "You might be a tightass but you're still kind of cool. And plus, I'm a little tired." This was no lie, his chest was heaving slightly and he had clearly been dancing: his hair lay out of place across his forehead and was slightly damp with sweat, his cheeks were flushed with a mixture of exertion and alcohol, and his eyes shone brightly behind his glasses, the panes of which were smudged again, Arthur noted irritably before briefly wondering who had been his partner for the evening, and if he had stepped on her feet. He smiled inwardly. Probably.

"Oh, how you flatter me, Alfred." Arthur sipped lightly at his gin. He didn't want to be excessively drunk, seeing as he would probably have to chauffeur Francis home, but he also didn't want to stop drinking. Therefore, it would be best that he make this one last. They were silent for a moment before something seemed to abruptly dawn on Alfred.

"Hey, Artie, I just remembered!" He was sat straight up in his excitement. "You still have to tell me that word that you promised me, y'know, the adjective about the world as your script sees it?" He balanced his chin on the swell of his palm and fluttered his eyelashes up at Arthur over the frames of his glasses. "I'm waiting!"

Arthur glared at him. "You've given me until the premiere of the movie to think it up, you fantastic idiot."

"Ooh, fantastic, that's a new one! If you can be so creative with insults than surely you can do the same with film interpretation, can't you, Artie?"

"Well, Alfred, would you have me just make something up on the spot?"

"Hey, I'm easy to please."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow incredulously but nevertheless devoted a moment of thought to the matter.

"Alright, then," he said. "Corrupt. The world as my script sees it is corrupt."

Alfred considered this for nothing more than an instant before he blew Arthur a wet raspberry.

"Please, Artie, that is so _easy. _Come on, I know you can do better than that, so it definitely doesn't count."

Arthur wasn't going to deny this, but he was always hopeful to get a glimpse into Alfred's actual intellect.

"Might you deign to tell me what's so wrong with it?"

"Really, _corrupt? _I mean, it's not necessarily wrong, Arthur, but I honestly think you're more original than that. I mean, first of all, anyone and everyone can and does write a screenplay about _corruption, _and second of all, that wasn't the real problem with the America dream and it wasn't really a problem at all in regards to America's stumble as a superpower – we're nothing if not an upright and honest people, even if we're just kidding ourselves about it."

"Wouldn't that qualify as corruption?"

"No, dude, no! Don't misunderstand - we're not kidding ourselves when we say we're upright, because we totally are. Instead we're kidding ourselves when we say that being upright _works _because guess what, America, it doesn't. You've gotta be a little mean in this world, Arthur, as I'm sure you know, and that's not an easy lesson to learn by any stretch. But we all have to, and we all do. Well, maybe that's not exactly what I mean – what I really want to say is that we all have to make a few concessions that go against our own morals for the sake of the greater good. Some people here just wouldn't see that, and I guess that's what really led to this whole mess, **a/n**" he sighed into his empty cocktail glass. "The good people in this world sure can be immature, huh?"

Arthur chuckled with genuine fondness. "You can say that again."

"Oh, Arthur," Alfred's eyes twinkled. "You wound me. Geez, man, you're such a cynic."

Arthur frowned.

"You say that to me rather often and, though by no means am I going to deny it, I'd rather like to know what, exactly, you are basing such a statement off of."

Alfred shrugged.

"I mean, it's just so obvious, your cynicism, that is. You sort of just…emanate it," he gestured vaguely with his hand. "That's probably what makes you such a brilliant screenwriter. I mean, you can see through everything and everyone and then sort of lay out what you find and construct characters out of it," he twirled the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers. "If you weren't cynical you wouldn't have talent, y'know? If you insist on seeing the good in everything, even when it's not really there," he grinned and pushed at his glasses for emphasis. "Then your eyes need correction."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"So you're saying that I should take being called a cynic a compliment?"

"No," said Alfred blatantly. "I'm saying it is what it is, and by that I mean, cynicism is part of your character, and I respect it. So, maybe from me it's something like a compliment, I guess, but…not really to the rest of the world."

"But you see, Alfred," Arthur smirked faintly. "As a cynic sees it, the rest of the world is compiled entirely of idiots and assholes."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow. "Do my ears mistake me or did you just exclude me from the population of idiots and assholes?"

Arthur swatted him on the shoulder, but found that despite himself, he was smiling rather fondly, again wholly impressed with the true breadth of Alfred's mind.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?

Alfred merely laughed and clapped Arthur on the shoulder affectionately before he turned his attention back to the dance floor, where Elizaveta was caught awkwardly between Gilbert's enthusiastic attempts at grinding and Roderich's more refined maneuvers. Arthur heard him chuckle quietly.

"It's no surprise she's being hounded by those two, eh? She sure is beautiful…" Surprised by the subdued tone of his voice, Arthur followed his gaze and tried to size up Elizaveta as any other man would. She was wearing a navy blue evening gown, cut generously across the chest to reveal her collarbone and the soft beginnings of cleavage, then tight across the waist and thigh, flaring out only slightly at the knee so that the little flap of silk swirled when she moved. Her loosely curled hair fell free across her shoulders and down her back, and a little smile played across the bow of her lips; she was, Arthur supposed, extremely lovely, and he gave Alfred a noncommittal nod.

"Who's that other guy again?" Alfred was referring to Roderich and Arthur told him so, along with information regarding his occupation at the studio and the fact that he was almost painfully intellectual.

Alfred nodded sagely.

"So she's caught between the badass and the sexy teacher type."

Ah, what wisdom; again Arthur began to doubt that this boy was the same who had just mapped out the perception of corruption by the American people and its resulting contribution to her decline.

"I don't think she'd be terrifically pleased to hear you say that, Alfred."

"Of course not," Alfred chuckled fondly. "She'd kick my ass to high heaven."

"Mm," Arthur took another controlled sip of his gin. "That's part of her charm."

They fell quiet again for a spell but the silence was far from awkward, although there was a certain aspect of the way Alfred sat and seemed to keep half an eye trained on him the whole time that left Arthur feeling faintly discomfited, brought the slightest touch of heat to his neck and ears, made him tap the nail of his index finger against the rim of his near-empty glass, though he didn't know quite why.

"How did you guys meet, anyways?" piped up Alfred after a while. "You and Elizaveta and Francis, I mean."

"Boarding school," answered Arthur before rather mournfully draining the last of his drink away.

"You know, Arthur," Alfred's gaze was now focused wholly on him and Arthur found himself immensely engrossed with arranging his glass on the coffee table in front of them so that he wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I really know very little about you. Enlighten me."

Arthur dared to glance skeptically up at him. "Well, Alfred, what would you like to know?"

Alfred shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just start at the beginning."

"The beginning? You can't be serious."

Alfred trained his gaze on him earnestly and his eyes were very blue, more so than usual, Arthur thought.

"Try me."

Arthur sighed and leaned against the back of the couch, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap, lacing his fingers together. He then proceeded to recount his childhood to Alfred as best he could, painting brief portraits of the most prominent figures that gave character to the memories of his boyhood, drew out the faces of his father and mother and a handful of the more notable nannies and governesses that had passed through their grand cold house in the English countryside before he proceeded to detail the excruciatingly intellectual nature of his parents and close family, something which brought them wealth and respect but also caused them all to grow up somewhat distant, separated, from all else but each other and those of similar mindsets.

"I always enjoyed an unusually close relationship with my parents," he had explained, smiling nostalgically. "They were more of my colleagues than my parents at all, to be perfectly honest…" He had trailed off. "…unfortunately now we rarely speak; or at least certainly not as much as I would like but…they're still living across the pond, and, well…things have changed, so to speak."

Alfred had blinked at him in that disarmingly interested fashion of his.

"Like how?"

Arthur evaded the question by enthusiastically launching into the tales of his scholarly experiences, which were approximately as follows: he had attended the finest private schools his parents could provide, of course, and there developed not only a fantastic classical education but a taste for language, literature, and, most of all, film. The movies positively enchanted him, he had thirsted for them in a way that he couldn't hope to explain, and most of all he had been enraptured by the idea of the structure behind the movement and the dialogue performed, wondered how it was created so carefully that life could be blown into it but it's delicate structure wouldn't shatter, and it was with that question in mind that he began to experiment with his first screenplays. He explained to Alfred that he turned sixteen just as his parents sent him to an international European boarding school to culture himself (or so Arthur chose to put it; he hoped Alfred wouldn't perceive the hesitation in his tone before the lie), and immediately upon arrival had fallen in with Francis, because despite his overwhelming French qualities he was a brilliant aspiring director, and Elizaveta, a fiercely passionate Hungarian hopeful actress. Not a week had passed before the three of them were absolutely inseparable, and they had plotted their lives around each other every since. And thus, ten years and a handful of failed or poor attempts at success later, there they were, scampering among the remains of a grand cultural empire attempting to revive a film from the ruins.

Alfred gazed at him pensively for a moment. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Was that satisfactory?"

"Totally, man," Alfred tapped his lower lip as if he were debating something in his mind. "But…there's just one thing that doesn't add up…"

"Oh, so now you're a detective?"

"Whoa, man," Alfred held up his hands with a slightly smile. "Just bear with me, bear with me. You said your parents sent you to boarding school to culture yourself, but that doesn't make sense – you were already cultured to the point where you felt socially superior, you said so yourself. And it's not like there weren't a ton of great schools in your area, you said that yourself, too. So what gives?"

Arthur felt his mouth go rather dry. Alfred's perceptive qualities had suddenly proven themselves to be much more than passing amusements.

"W-well…" he stammered. "I was perhaps paraphrasing a touch…"

"Arthur," Alfred had his head titled to one side curiously; Arthur bit down on his lower lip. "Come on, what's the legit reason? Seriously, dude, it can't be that weird, it's just a choice of school. And if it is, don't worry about it, I promise I won't tell. I'll even swear on the _bro_tocol, okay?"

"Please never use that word in my presence again," murmured Arthur distractedly as he weighed his options. Alfred chuckled.

"Sure, sure, whatever you like," Alfred's voice fell abruptly serious. "Arthur, come on now, why did you really go to boarding school?"

Arthur shut his eyes for moment; he knew that at one point Alfred was going to have to know, and it was better, he supposed, that it be sooner than later. There really was nothing else for it.

"Well, Alfred," he sighed. "I say I _went _to boarding school but perhaps it was really more like _was compelled _to…to go to boarding school, or even…or even _sent _to boarding school, though that may be an exaggeration. You see, Alfred, when I was nearly sixteen, I…well," he paused, and bravely met Alfred's gaze. "I came out."

Alfred was quiet and, fueled by adrenalin and gin, Arthur charged ahead.

"Y-you see, I'd known for a while but nobody else really did, and it wasn't so much that my parents had this enormous problem with it as it was that it made them faintly uncomfortable…I guess they realized there was something they didn't know about me and…well, I don't know. They didn't like it. Anyways, they weren't the same to me afterwards, but that wasn't really what caused the whole boarding school thing. When the kids at my school found out, er, well I did the thing rather on the spot, without planning it out, and it was terribly melodramatic, really, but I digress…so anyways, they all sort of knew at once, the kids at my school, I mean, and some of them were okay about it, but some of them…well, they weren't, to put it lightly. I suppose, to give them credit, my parents were worried about me, but I suspect that they also found it a relief to be able to ship me away so they wouldn't have to deal with my…curious new development, I believe was what they called it. That's why I can never decide on the right bloody _verb_ to use regarding my decision to go away to school," he took a deep breath. "But that's how it happened. That's why I went away. And it was the best thing that's ever happened to me…so…well…that's that, I suppose."

Alfred was quiet for another moment and Arthur felt a faint twinge of fear in his gut. Was Alfred going to be angry? Confused? Upset that he had allowed Arthur to sleep over at his apartment, to use his shower, to wear his clothes, to see him shirtless, only a few nights before? Would he find it revolting? Could he be one of those men who believed that Arthur would fall to his knees and beg to suck his cock at the snap of his fingers? And just as Arthur began to feel dangerously dizzy from the combination of alcohol and panic, Alfred smiled and clapped him on the shoulder with the same painful enthusiasm as always.

"Wow, man, I have to say, I really respect you," he was beaming. "I mean, maybe it's because I live in California and stuff, and there's Matt and all, but…it was so easy for me that I can't imagine what it would be like to go through all that. I truly admire you."

Arthur felt the headiness brought on by his panic and faint drunkenness halt for a moment. What was that? What was so easy for Alfred? Surely he couldn't mean…

"Surely you can't mean…"

Alfred stared at him for a minute, seeming confused, before a grin exploded across his face. "What? Are you telling me that you haven't figured it out yet? Dude, I can't believe it! After I dragged you all over the city and to dinner and a movie and my _apartment _and everything? What did you think I was trying to accomplish?" His face shone with absolute glee. "Oh, man, dude, this is so hilarious!"

"Wait, hold on, Alfred," Arthur's mouth was bone-dry and he sorely missed his gin. "H-haven't figured out what, exactly?" What was Alfred trying to imply? Surely not…

"Well, Arthur, since you're really this thick, I guess I'll have to tell you." Without warning, Alfred stared straight at him, and Arthur felt the lightheadedness come rushing back. "I'm totally - "

"Alfred, dude, whatre'ya doin' over here with boring-ass ol' Arthu-u-r?" Gilbert slurred upon abruptly appearing over the arm of the sofa and hooking his elbows beneath Alfred's armpits, actually lifting him from the sofa. "C'mon, les'go have some fun, hm? It's gonna be fu-fucking awesome, the most fucking awesome you've ever, like, fucking _seen, _dude!" And, having apparently taken full advantage of the somewhat superhuman strength that massive quantities of alcohol can sometimes lend to a person, Gilbert then proceeded to physically drag Alfred away from the sofa, leaving a very stunned Arthur in his wake.

_It was so easy for me that I can't imagine what it would be like to go through that._

What, pray tell, Alfred, was so easy for you? Could he have possibly mistaken Arthur's meaning?

_After I dragged you all over the city and to dinner and a movie and my apartment and everything? What did you think I was trying to accomplish? _

Arthur daren't even begin to interpret the significance of this; taken in context with the rest of the conversation what he discovered could prove much too dangerous.

_I'm totally -_

Well, Arthur could very well guess what that last syllable was. He found that he couldn't justify the high color in his cheeks by the amount of gin he had drunk. His heart was pounding faster and more erratically than he liked to admit.

Arthur didn't see Alfred for the rest of the night, and as he drove a thoroughly plastered Francis, reduced to snoring on the dashboard, back to their apartment, he considered the idea that perhaps it was a good thing that Alfred was gone to Europe for a week.

Arthur, for one, certainly had some thinking to do.

* * *

><p>OMGEEEE U GAIZ LIEK EVERYBODY'S GAY!1111!11! WHAT A SURPRISE. AT LEAST THEY TALKED ABOUT IT BEFORE FALLING INTO BED TOGETHER.<p>

WAIT…or are they? Poor Alfred never got to finish his sentence!

WELL, IT SEEMS YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO FIND OUT.

AND FIND OUT YOU WILL.

To be honest, I edited this chapter rather hurriedly so I apologize for any glaring grammar mistakes.

Ahem. Anyways. Veritable mountains of author's notage here. I do apologize. Translations are, for the most part, in chronological order as they appear in the text.

**Francis' French at the beginning: **

Oh, I had fun with this. Basically, what you need to know is that Francis refers to Arthur as his wife (_ma femme) _and as the feminine form of 'my dear' (_ma cherie, ma cherie femme)_. You may have noticed that when he finally refers to him in the masculine case again, Arthur notes it aloud.

Otherwise, _s'il te plaît, je ne puis endurer un moment plus de ceci! _please, I can't stand a moment more of this!

_cela _= that, in reference to the pinch on the ass, xD, and then later on, _eh bien entendu. = _well of course.

**Antonio and Romano Have Their Not-quite-consensual Fun: **(prose intervals omitted)

-The muffled ring of a telephone against a background of heavy metal music-

Romano – _"Antonio…the telephone…it's…hey, lemme go, I have to get it!"_

Antonio – _"Mm, bitty tomato, __**a/n **__ignore it; don't you see that there are more important things to do…"_

Romano – _"Shut up, you bastard, what do you think you're doing? I can't – mmf – I can't waste my time with you like this – nng – fuck you! you son of a royal old bitch, don't you see that…idiot! stop it, I've told you before, don't kiss me there!...Antonio, the telephone…I have to get it…_

Antonio – _"Mmm, come on, my bitty tomato, __**a/n **__nothing more than a kiss, please, then I won't ask for more, I promise! But now, please, don't leave me, I want you to stay here with me for a bit more…"_

Romano – "_But…but somebody's calling us and…and…ahh, Antonio, IF YOU DON'T STOP THAT I'M GOING TO RIP YOU TO SHREDS!" _

**-Prose Interval-** (Note – _c'est moi et mes amis = it's me and my friends) _

Romano – _"W-what, is there someone at the door?" _

Antonio – "_Romano, I've told you already, ignore it and put your attention on me and the love I'm about to give you!" _

Romano – _"But they'll see us - "_**squeal **_"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON'T TOUCH ME THERE!" _

**A/N – **Bitty tomato is a very poor translation of _'pomodorito', _a little construction of mine made up of the Italian word for 'tomato', _pomdoro, _and the suffix –_ito, _which in both Spanish and Italian adds a diminutive or even, so to speak, _adorable_ connotation to a word. Perfect for your uke and just all around too cute, amirite u gaiz?

**Other Translations from that section: **(there are quite a lot, sorry)

_Bienvenidos todos = _welcome, all

…_querido _Alfred, our_ chico de oro _= beloved Alfred, our boy of gold (not to be confused with 'golden boy', which is colloquial and has a different Spanish translation…ahhhgod I'm a nerd…)

_C'est certainement une addition nouvelle _= that's certainly a new addition…

_Accidenti! I miei pulcini, tranquillo, tranquillo! I miei cari, non vi preocupiate, sta bene, sta bene, vi lo prometto! _= Damn! My chicks, calm, calm! My dears, don't worry yourselves, it's alright, it's alright, I promise!

_De verdad nunca deja de asombrarme _= Honestly he never ceases to amaze me…(meaning Gil)

_La ciudad de amor _= the city of love (referring to Paris, of course)

_Claro, claro _= sure, sure

_Eso es _= Colloquial, roughly equivalent to "that's that" or "that's it".

**One more bit of French: **(from the car scene)

_Oui, je le sais meilleur que quelqu'un = _yes, I know better than anyone

And if you, as a reader of Hetalia fanfiction, don't know what '_mon ami_' means by now, I weep for you.

That's all the translations, I think. Tell me if I missed something. BUT HARK, DESPAIR NOT, THE AUTHOR'S NOTAGE CONTINUES!

**A/N – **I am fully aware that Hungarians speak…well, Hungarian. But because of her (historical) associations with Gilbert and Roderich, I believe Elizaveta would also understand German, especially the angry kind.

**A/N – **Los Angeles, in Spanish literally _the angels _but designed to signify _city of the angels_, was of course first dubbed by Spanish explorers and colonizers, explaining why Antonio takes such pains to roll the name from his tongue.

**A/N – **Gilbert and Antonio share a mansion because they are heterosexual life partners. Yessss. Er…Gilbert is straight, I can't say the same for Antonio, but he has his Romano and isn't going to go trying to give Gil a taste of his own medicine by invading his vital regions anytime soon…xD

**A/N – **WHOA POLITCAL COMMENTARY. Through Alfred, I am effectively slapping you right in the face with my entirely unabashed opinion. Sorry, I couldn't resist - I'm very angry with Washington and **both **political parties. We democrats are being terribly self-righteous and obnoxious; the republicans are being stubborn to a fault. Really, America, we are acting like children. We must be driving poor Uncle Sam up the wall. This behavior could very well lead to the decline that I've attempted to portray through…well…yaoi. I guess that's one way to assert your opinion. Somehow I doubt any of this will reach Washington's ears, though…perhaps if FDR was still in office (SUCH a USUK fanboy, u gaiz), yes, but now…I repeat, doubtful. xDD

**Etcetera: **In case there's any confusion, nobody go calling the sexual harassment police on Antonio. Romano, being a tsundere, only pretends to dislike his treatment when really, he gets off on it as much (if not more) than its perpetrator. xDD

Oh, and did anyone watch _The Fairly Odd Parents _as a kid? If so, do you remember the scene where Cosmo's all like, "don't cook bacon without a shirt on!" and then proceeds to do so? DUDE. That was totally my inspiration for the shirtless!Alfred scene! SERIOUSLY!1111!1! Well, that, and I am a pathetic, drooling, ALFRED fangirl and therefore love nothing quite like I love describing his body. xD

I think…that's…possibly…all I have to say. Whoa. These notes were really more translations than opinion or historical fact; I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Anyways, the next chapter, in which Alfred is in Paris, Arthur is still in LA, and everybody, _especially_ Elizaveta, does some plotting, will be here next Saturday (after I start school, bwaaaa). If you review, you will receive one of Romano's laciest garter belts.

Until then, my dears, ADIEU.


	4. Chapter 4

I HAD TO START RL U GAIZ LIEK WHAT IS WITH THAT. D:

However, that's not the reason why this chapter is so short (though I am sorry about that); don't worry, I already have a reservoir of writing stored up. Never fear, the other chapters will be nearly, longer or just as long as their counterparts, and I promise we won't be slowing down anytime soon.

This chapter is actually unusual in more than one way. First, the length (I apologize again), and second, I use a slightly different format, primarily because it takes place over a week. This style shouldn't appear in any other chapters…I don't think. Also, Alfred and Arthur never exchange a word. WHAT. WHAT IS THIS, I DON'T EVEN…

Well anyways.

**In Brief:** A tour of the _le cité de amour_, Elizaveta lays the foundations of her plot, and Arthur gets a surprise.

Um…

Uh…

WHAT, IT SEEMS THIS IS ALL I HAVE TO SAY. D:

HOW CAN THIS BE?

Enjoy. xD

* * *

><p><em>Saturday <em>

They barely arrived at the terminal on time, and Alfred smiled when he imagined how furious Arthur would have been, admittedly with all of them but most especially with him, for forgetting important things like packing underwear and setting alarms and for absolutely _having _to stop for a sausage _McMuffin_ and a coffee before being able to really function, and then for lining up to board the plane, just in the nick of time, and then promptly remembering that he had indeed drunk the entire aforementioned coffee and hadn't yet seen the men's room.

But alas, there was nobody standing at his side railing at him in a thick British accent that only got thicker with anger, nobody furrowing his brows disapprovingly or sneering, nobody challenging him or ignoring him in favor of running their hands distractedly through their already haphazard hair as a method of expressing their frustration.

Despite this noticeable absence, they somehow successfully boarded the plane, sitting three to a row, Elizaveta between Francis and Alfred. Francis immediately began flipping through the in-flight entertainment options, Elizaveta immersed herself in a tabloid, and Alfred opened his chocolate bar and tried to concentrate on his French phrasebook. A few people in the seats around them had noticed his and Elizaveta's presence and in response to their poorly-concealed whispering Alfred flashed them a brief grin, though it faded slightly when he thought of how Arthur would have rolled his lovely cynic's eyes at foolish antics of all the silly people in the world.

They took off and Francis soon struck up a conversation with the stewardess, in French of course, and had her blushing and giggling in a matter of minutes. Elizaveta, rolling her eyes at his behavior, eventually tucked her tabloid away and transitioned to a romance novel written in Hungarian. A quick glance at the cover revealed two strapping, shirtless young men beaming at each other, but Alfred figured that his first thoughts must be mistaken - surely it was a novel dealing with a love triangle, or something or other, and that explained the two boys on the cover. He shrugged to himself, tried to ignore the attention he was drawing from the other passengers, and made a genuine effort at memorizing a few snippets of general French conversation before he laid the book down resignedly and put his seat back. He sorely missed the distraction he usually made of Arthur and thought that the flight was going to seem very long; he might as well sleep most of it away.

_Sunday _

Elizaveta knew things when she saw them.

It was early morning on the other side of the Atlantic, and dawn was just trickling in through the gaps in the shades of the airplane windows, though it penetrated neither the murk of the unlit cabin nor the occasional glow of the overhead reading lamps. At her right, Francis was still fast asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, but Alfred had his cheek rested on the flat of his fist and was flipping absentmindedly through his French phrasebook, no doubt absorbing nothing of the language.

Oh, but he was a handsome boy; Elizaveta was thoroughly away of this, and the soft artificial yellow of the reading lamp above certainly him did him justice, accentuating the strong bones of his cheek and jaw while preserving the air of gentleness, almost child-like, that there was to his face. He had only woken a few minutes before her and his eyes were deeper blue and lidded with tiredness, so much that his lashes almost brushed his cheek and cast long shadows below the frames of his glasses. His full mouth was open slightly, perhaps whispering the words to himself, and there was the faintest suggestion of stubble at his chin.

He was devastating. Elizaveta knew that she wasn't the only one to have noticed this. The tabloids had. The newspapers had. Hollywood had. America itself had, of course - nobody could ignore what they all knew in their hearts to be their final glimpse of the gleaming golden glory they had lost.

And, Elizaveta had realized as of late, somebody else, somebody infinitely harder to convince than any magazine or city or nation, and infinitely more deserving of such a treasure, had noticed, too.

Indeed, it seemed that Alfred F. Jones was truly irresistible.

Something had to be done.

Fortunately, Elizaveta knew exactly what.

She sat up completely in her seat, pushing her hair to one side of her neck before leaning over and tapping Alfred on the shoulder. He shut his book and met her gaze with a smile.

Oh, this was going to be perfect.

"Alfred," she smirked, laying a hand on his arm. "Have I ever got a proposition for you…"

_Monday _

For all the tales of her beauty, Alfred might have thought that Paris would be cleaner. When he remarked on this to Francis, however, he was met with enormous offense and a rant that shifted furiously between French and English, embellished here and there with excessive gestures of the hands that expanded far too widely for the breadth of their taxi. It took reassurances from both Alfred and Elizaveta that the filthy banks of the Seine were the most lovely they had ever seen to return Francis to a brooding silence.

Admittedly, their hotel was rather fantastic, a veritable palace of lofty ceilings and arching doorways and glittering golden ornaments reflecting off gleaming floors. Flowers filled elegant vases and bright bowls of fruit adorned every table; heavy curtains hung from the windows, pooling on the floors in puddles of lace and tulle.

"I feel like Marie Antoinette," Elizaveta had remarked as her baggage was whisked away by a pair of dapper busboys.

"My dear girl," Francis had drawled in reply. "Bite your tongue."

After being warned away from the temptingly overstocked mini-bar, Alfred entertained himself by flipping mournfully through and eventually, victimized by jet lag, falling asleep in front of the extensive room service menu.

He woke to Francis' calling him to dinner and blindly followed him and Elizaveta out onto the Paris streets and towards an intimate little bistro, where they discovered that the paparazzi had already overtaken their footsteps. Their dinner conversation was synchronized with camera flashes.

After the meal, Elizaveta positively gloated over her _café au lait. _

The first phase of her plan was in motion.

_Tuesday _

Although Alfred would definitely maintain his previous statement regarding the surprising filthiness of Paris in the daytime, in the evening he would readily admit that the city transformed to the extent where she became almost unrecognizable, the brittle off-white structure of her streets and buildings thrumming with a sudden pulse, abruptly blooming to life with people and culture and light in a way that reminded Alfred vaguely of the Los Angeles he had known as a boy. Her plazas and restaurants sparkled with conversation and laughter, the Seine turned golden with the reflections of the lights from the streetlamps, her parks and byways filled with the whispers of hands and clothing and sweet nothings and the cinemas, well…they positively glowed with a culture and an enthusiasm that Alfred had never before seen and now willed to flood his mind, to fill him with the knowledge that elsewhere the passion that he and Francis and Elizaveta and, most of all, _Arthur, _pursued went unsullied and unforgotten.

He had sorely missed Arthur then as he watched the people dart in and out of the cinema, listening to their voices lilting thrillingly in a language he now wished he could understand, and imagined how happy he would have been, even though he may not have shown it, to see that his love was still shared by so many.

But of course, Alfred had chided himself, Arthur was probably already fully aware of this. It was only America, after all, who had allowed this industry to fall so far, only America who had watched as her grand cinematic empire crumpled beneath its own extravagance. People still went to the movies, of course, but not for the sake of art or character or even mere physical beauty; instead they sought cheap thrills from behind pairs of disposable 3D glasses. America's age of culture was over, her age of economic prowess was ending, and this could possibly, Alfred thought, explain his own popularity.

When he had expressed a few of these considerations to Francis, he had received a slight nod and a questioning glance, accompanied by an arch of the eyebrows.

"Well, Alfred, _mon cher, _Paris has been around for many years and has seen many things – beauty, decadence, fame and infamy, blood - especially regarding the arrival of the notorious woman known as _La Guillotine. _All these are embedded, never to be forgotten, in her streets, her river, her people, the very foundations on which she stands," he sighed and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "This is true of every city in Europe. Tell me, Alfred, what has Los Angeles seen that compares?"

"Well…I suppose, to be honest…in comparison, nothing."

"And there, your explanation. Power comes and goes," murmured Francis. "But little can shake what is ancient. Europe may not always know such passing things as wealth or strength, but she will always know culture and people; those are the two foundations on which she is built, and the two foundations which will never crumble, come what may. You Americans have long since forgotten your European heritage, indeed, you are your own selves now…but still you exist without definition. Perhaps, Alfred, when this fault is remedied, your country will find peace."

"Peace," Alfred had murmured as a reply, watching a young couple emerge, laughing, from the cinema. "I can imagine that would be nice."

_Wednesday _

Together Alfred and Elizaveta waltzed across the Seine, her costume calling for a crimson silk scarf that trailed behind them in the wind, and they were so ensnared in the thrill of the city and their dialogue that they delivered their lines as though they truly were the characters Arthur had so carefully crafted. They grinned with true laughter as they scampered through the _Le Jardin des Tuileries,_ expressed unaffected awe as they darted around _La Louvre _with the film crew in hot pursuit,were chased for a while through the winding cobblestone alleyways of the old city, and chattered their lines away in front of the fruit venders and the _patisseries, _concluding with a kiss transformed into a kaleidoscope by the stained glass of Notre Dame.

Once the cameras were stilled, Francis sprung clapping from his director's chair and they broke apart, grinning with the exhilaration of a performance that they both knew to have been one of the finest of their careers.

"_Magnifique, magnifique, mes chers,_" crowed Francis, accepting Elizaveta's embrace. _"_I hadn't known you two were capable of such raw, natural emotion! You simply must make sure that you can manage this again; Arthur will be positively beside himself with pride."

Francis caught sight of Alfred's slightly faded smile and smirked.

"Not to worry, my dear boy, you have done him justice enough with your performance today." He clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "_Au bout, _with work, this film will prove to be worth more than any travel agency could ever dream to offer him. It is merely up to us to realize this work, to bring it to its full potential as he had planned it, and we will have paid him back tenfold."

Elizaveta smiled reassuringly. "Arthur's stubborn and exacting, but he honestly believes in us, and he'll let us know when we've finally done right by him, of that you can be sure."

"You guys make it sound like he's the director or something," murmured Alfred, but he smiled tentatively nevertheless, a strange sense of pride blooming in his chest.

"Ah, but Alfred," Francis winked at him. "You said so yourself, in Antonio's office - Arthur may not be the director, but he is the man who is truly important. It is Arthur who truly _loves _the work, and therefore it is Arthur who, in the very beginning when there is nothing more than the whisper of an idea, structures that idea so that we may love it as he does, and so that we may bring it to life as he would do," Francis paused, squeezing Alfred's shoulder gently. "And in that sense, _mon cher, _it is Arthur who is the true director of us all."

_Thursday _

Nearly a week had passed and Arthur had since come to three conclusions.

Firstly, he had chosen to deduce that unuttered syllable, that one little word that Gilbert had stolen away from him by dragging Alfred back into the throes of the party, as being what the context would imply.

From there, he had examined some of Alfred's previous statements in their conversation, and had since decided not to think about those anymore because even mere half-formed inklings as to what they could possibly entail regarding himself and Alfred left his heart beating too quickly and his mind filled with hopes too dangerous to possibly dream of sustaining.

Whence his third dilemma emerged: could one really call the feeling that those ideas left thrumming fitfully in his chest _hope? _Arthur wasn't sure, in truth he wasn't sure of anything much; not if he was hoping at all, not of what exactly he was hoping for even if that was the case, in fact, he was fairly doubtful that there was reason to hope in the first place. All that he was really sure of was that he was immensely grateful that Alfred was still in Paris, because really, these three conclusions that he was ever so very proud of didn't resemble conclusions terribly much at all.

_Friday _

Arthur was still very confused and desperately needed a drink.

Francis called his final _sous-titre _on the streets of Paris.

Alfred allowed himself to drink himself silly; he would sleep the hangover away on the plane tomorrow.

Elizaveta helped him and Francis back to the hotel. The alcohol in their breath alone was enough to leave her faintly tipsy, but nonetheless she stayed up far into the small hours of the night, enthroned in her hotel room, gazing down at their faces laminated across the pages of the latest French tabloid and positively glowing with the thrill of conquest.

She had executed her plan to perfection. It was a good thing that boy was so easy to convince; now all she had to do was relax and enjoy the spectacle of the explosion that would undoubtedly occur when the bomb she had so carefully planted was detonated, though she had to admit to herself, feeling faintly guilty regarding this one particular fetish of hers, that she would enjoy what would most definitely emerge from the resulting wreckage infinitely more.

_Saturday _

Arthur grudgingly went in to work upon Gilbert's request despite the fact that he hadn't been to World Series Entertainment all week and that it was Saturday, which he generally took off anyways. He took the elevator up to the top floor and knocked tentatively on the door of the office; when he was met with neither a shouted conversation in something garbled between Spanish and Italian, nor the thud of heavy metal music, he gently turned the knob; the door opened and he found Gilbert asleep on the office couch, several of his chicks nestled in the various nooks and crannies of his body, snoozing or chirping quietly.

With a faint sigh, Arthur went over and shook Gilbert by the shoulder, though it was not this that woke him but rather the complaints of the chick who had been previously asleep in the crook of his neck. In any case, he sprung awake and had to catch the thing in his hands to avoid crushing it.

"Jesus, Arthur!" he cried after returning the chick to the rug. "Be more careful, I could have seriously hurt him!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows as Gilbert began delicately extracting chicks from their assorted locations across his body.

"You wanted to see me, Gilbert?"

"Dude, this isn't even funny, what if I had sat on him or something? He'd be like, totally dead, and that would _not _be awesome, man," he shook his head to emphasis his point. "Not awesome at all."

"Really, Gilbert," said Arthur tiredly. "It's Saturday, what do you need?"

Having returned all the chicks to their communal cage and drawn the curtain, Gilbert returned to his couch and crossed one leg over the other, tapping his knee.

"What, Arthur, I can't ask you to work just to hang out?"

Arthur blinked.

"Just to…Gilbert, you're my boss."

"I'm aware."

"Then what..?"

"So, um, dude…how close are you and Elizaveta exactly?"

Arthur suppressed a sigh. Ah.

"Very; she's one of my dearest friends and I love her as such, of course," he quirked a brow at Gilbert's expression. "But if you're worried about our being _too_ close, so to speak, don't. I promise, that's about as likely to happen as - "

"Dude, chill. I saw you with that other guy at that party Antonio and I had a couple months ago, so trust me, that's not what I'm talking about." Arthur turned faintly pink. He hadn't been aware that anyone had remembered that particular occasion; in fact at the time he had been so drunk that his own recollections were a little vague. Gilbert smirked at his expression. "I was actually wondering if you perhaps had any…information, so to speak."

"Information."

"Yes."

"Say, Gilbert, did you notice when we took a time machine back to grade school? It all just happened so fast that I'm afraid my memory fails me."

Gilbert looked genuinely perplexed.

"…what, dude?"

Arthur sighed exasperatedly. "We are not in kindergarten and I am absolutely not ferrying gossip between you two! You are both adults, Gilbert, so if you have some sort of infatuation with her then tell her so yourself and get your answer that way, because while you may have sunk to this level of immaturity I will most certainly not permit you to pull me down as well!"

"But Roderich -"

"Acts like the adult he is and approaches her on his own, without, you'll notice, needing somebody to hold his sodding hand!"

"You gotta understand, man, I've never had any competition before!"

"Well, you could have had her then but you never spoke up!"

"Well that's kind of hard, isn't it?" Gilbert ran his hair through his hair in frustration. "Especially with a girl as strong as Elizaveta! She's not about to fall for any cheap tricks."

"Are you saying that's all you have to offer her?"

"Of course not! I'm fucking awesome! But he's so…so…I dunno, _smart._" Realizing that he was hardly strengthening his case, Gilbert immediately launched into a stream of synonyms and explanations. "I mean, he's refined and intellectual and reads big books and knows every single damn composer there is to know, not to mention he has every single one of their works memorized, and he's also pretty handsome, though admittedly not as smokin' as I am but Elizaveta's not all about the looks anyways, and he also speaks German, which by the way is so the sexiest language ever, so I don't really have any leverage there, and he's like a fucking _brilliant _composer, you said so yourself, and has won lots of awards and shit while all I have to my name are my notorious parties and all those suspicions that Antonio and I are fuck buddies or something which is _so not true! _because he has Romano to stick it in and I'm straight anyways so yeah! You gotta help me, dude. I mean, come on. I am like, your _boss._"

Arthur weighed his options for a moment, tapping his foot sharply against the floor.

"I'm not a girl, you know," he said eventually. "It's not as if she and I have sleepovers all the time and make bloody cucumber masks while we do each other's hair and tell each other all our secrets."

"But dude, you're _gay,_" Gilbert put his hands together in supplication. "You know how girls are with their gay boy toys, you must know something!"

"First of all, I hope you have at least some idea of how offensive you're being, especially considering that _you _are far closer to being rendered a _boy toy _by Elizavetathan I, and besides, Francis, as we all know, is gay as well; what makes you think she tells these things to me instead of him?"

"Even I know not to tell Francis anything that has to do with _amour, _as he would say."

Arthur had to chuckle at this.

"Touché." He sighed resignedly, and Gilbert's expression brightened. "Alright, alright, it's possible that I might tell you something, but only under the correct circumstances."

"Would the circumstance of _over drinks_ suffice?"

Arthur smirked; some people knew him too well.

"I suppose that will have to do."

* * *

><p>Strangely enough, by the time Gilbert was slurring over the counter, Arthur was not terribly drunk; in fact, he had scarcely reached the bottom of his first glass of gin by the time Gilbert had already drained away half of his third Long Island iced tea and had an arm slung around his shoulders, at times leaning over to clink the rims of their glasses together for no apparent reason at all.<p>

"Dude, y'like…y'gotta _understand _it" he was drawling. "…she's so fucking hot…I mean, have you seen her _rack?_ It's like…astronomical!"

Arthur sighed and selected a peanut from the bowl on the counter. The taste reminded him that this was the same bar to which he had come with Alfred after his altercation with Antonio, and he felt a little blood seep into his cheeks despite himself. Unhappy to be reminded of his current confusion, he stood up from the bar and excused himself to the restroom, promptly going to the sink and turning on the faucet to splash cold water on his face.

The stream was lukewarm and coppery and stung his eyes where he was clumsy, but Arthur felt refreshed nonetheless and braced his arms against the rim of the sink to examine himself in the blotched surface of the mirror.

The dark circles beneath his eyes and his overall paleness, which persisted despite the flush in his cheeks, brought on both by his washing and the feeling that he hadn't yet defined as hope that thudded in his stomach, were both relatively constant presences, but there was a fresh line between his brows that no amount of relaxation seemed to be able to remove. When Arthur even went so far as to attempt to smooth the crease with his fingers his eyebrows drew back together again the moment he released the pressure. This caused the corners of his mouth to pull down further than usual and he tried to neutralize his expression with little success. His eyes were heavy with the tiredness generated by his restless nights spent writing or reading and by what little alcohol he had drunk, but still there was a certain change, a not very pronounced but steady brightness, in their depths that Arthur found to be somewhat unfamiliar. He blinked, lifted his hand to his face, and watched the already high color in his cheeks turn darker as he considered what could have possibly brought this on.

Arthur was still extremely confused but now at least one thing was certain. His impression of Alfred F. Jones could no longer be described with words and phrases such as annoyed or exasperated or grudgingly fond, indeed now it could not even be described as platonic. Arthur frowned but admitted to himself that this was oddly fitting; Alfred was always torturing him with word games, after all, from original constructions involving the idiom _bro _to his little shenanigans regarding the interpretation of Arthur's script and finally to that elusive little syllable, the loss of which, admittedly, could not be faulted to Alfred but rather to the man whom Arthur had left at the bar, and to whom, he thought with a sigh, he should probably be returning.

After he had washed and dried his face one last time in the hopes of banishing some of the flush in his cheeks then promptly making this attempt obsolete by patting his face once or twice in an effort to compose himself, he left the restroom, turned back towards the bar, and halted very suddenly.

Gilbert was no longer alone at the bar. He seemed to be conversing very intently with another man, one hand resting on his shoulder as they both bent over their foolishly proportioned drinks. These facts in themselves were not particularly alarming, but rather it was when Gilbert leant back with a peal of drunken laughter and revealed the face of his companion that Arthur had to stop and steady himself on the nearest table.

They didn't seem to be on the verge of a brawl despite the subject of their conversation. Perhaps this could be explained by that Roderich really was too refined for such things, but Arthur doubted it – more likely the alcohol was the greatest contributor to their roaring laughter and slurred banter. It was amazing that Roderich was already so drunk; he must have come in either the moment after Arthur had left for the bathroom or been lurking in some corner of the bar for quite some time in order to reach such a pinnacle of intoxication.

"N-no Gilbert," he was saying as Arthur cautiously approached. "There's no reason for _you _to be insecure, that's r-ridiculous…you say so yourself, you're awesome, on top of being young, and cool and crazy, and not to mention rather," a burp. "Rather affluent. What could she find to fault in you?"

"Duuuude," groaned Gilbert. "You know she's not that into money, man, 'Liza's no gold-digger! A-an' besides, you've like…you've like…got _class, _y'know what I mean, dude? Chicks dig fucking _class_, you know what I'm saying, man?"

Roderich nodded almost mournfully and Gilbert took this as encouragement.

"You're like…all fucking _learned _an' stuff and you can play music and chicks dig music man, but not heavy metal, no they don' dig that, lemme tell you…but the _piano, _oh man. Just like…a _scale _makes them cream, basically…" He tried to take another sip of his drink and seemed confused to find the glass empty. "H-hey, s'all gone…tell me, wuzzat about man, 'cause it's not awesome, not awesome at all," he glanced up, presumably in search of a refill, but his eyes found Arthur instead. "Arthur!" he shouted joyfully. "Back from jackin' yourself off thinkin' about our little golden boy 'n ready to join the _fiesta_ again, eh?"

"See," explained Roderich while Arthur stuttered at Gilbert to keep his voice down, his cheeks flaming a magnificent shade of red. "It's when you use Spanish words like _fiesta _or whatever that people think you let Antonio stick it in you! You gotta stop doin' that, Gil, you really gotta! After that," he drained his glass. "I can assure you all your problems will be solved."

Ignoring Roderich, Gilbert slapped Arthur on the back and gave him a lopsided grin that left him coughing with the reek of sugared alcohol.

"C'mon, Artie, don't worry, there's no need to hide what you've been doin'! Everybody here's cool," he was still shouting. "N'besides, you're like, _transparent, _dude…we all…" A hiccup. "We all know 'bout your lil' thing for…for..." Thankfully, Gilbert then proceeded to slip into German, tapping his index finger against Arthur's chest with a drunken smirk while Roderich listened attentively.

Arthur received a questioning glance from the bartender as their conversation began to escalate, flitting between long streams of German, occasional incoherent bursts of English, and once an explosion of Spanish from Gilbert, and decided that it would be best that they flee the scene. Hooking Gilbert's arm across his shoulders and hoping that Roderich could cope with walking on his own, Arthur managed to herd them from the bar and into the alleyway, where Gilbert promptly vomited in a trashcan while Roderich pawed at his hair in some form of effort at holding it back.

"I love you, man," said Gilbert when he was recovered. "And no matter whom she chooses, that…" He grinned ridiculously as Roderich bent to add his offering to the trashcan but otherwise continued undeterred. "…that will never change. We're brothers, man…brothers."

When he had wiped his mouth on his sleeve and straightened up again, Roderich nodded and extended his hand to Gilbert.

"For the love of Elizaveta."

Gilbert nodded, still rather unsteady on his feet, and accepted the hand offered.

"Mm, yeah, for the love of 'Lizaveta."

Arthur sighed and thought that he was still insufficiently drunk.

* * *

><p>Despite his best efforts at returning Roderich and Gilbert to their homes as quickly as possible, the latter insisted that they stop by a pet store to purchase more chicken feed, because they were nearly out and it was Feliciano's day off. Arthur might have liked to remind them that it also happened to be <em>Arthur's <em>day off, but refrained on the grounds that otherwise Gilbert may attempt to navigate the local _Petco _without assistance, with likely catastrophic consequences. Roderich, full of understanding for Gilbert's duties as a father, was all behind this decision, and so Arthur was left with no other option but to do his best to disguise the miserable state of his companions as they browsed the aisles in search of the very specific formula Gilbert's _children, _as he insisted they be called, required.

Finally, after a seemingly endless search and a handful of drunken arguments, often in German, between Roderich and Gilbert, they uncovered the brand which was apparently so necessary and headed towards the checkout. Thrilled by their conquest, Gilbert and Roderich charged ahead into the line of customers, wielding their wallets like children who just receiving their allowance. Arthur reacted quickly and deftly snatched Gilbert's wallet from his hand, stealing his credit card and banishing the two to browsing the tabloid racks while he dealt with their purchase.

He was just thanking the cashier when Gilbert barreled straight into him, his breathing ragged, clutching a magazine in his fist. Roderich came from not far behind, and it took a good deal of effort to calm them both down to the point where they could form coherent sentences.

"Y-you've really gotta see this, Arthur!" panted Gilbert, brandishing the tabloid in front of Arthur's face while Roderich moaned something about someone having clearly already made their choice. After having apologized to the other customers and drawn the two over to the side, Arthur frowned heavily and pushed Gilbert's hand back a little so that he could focus on the headline.

Arthur blinked.

_America's Newest Golden Couple Gets Acquainted with the Streets of Paris_

This had been printed in chubby yellow letters, below which was an enlarged snapshot featuring two very familiar faces, or their jawbones and the backs of their heads, at least; in fact very little of their actual expressions could be seen, something which could probably be attributed to the fact that Alfred had turned his head to the side in order to deepen the kiss and Elizaveta had her hands cupped about his face.

Arthur blinked again. To the side of the primary photograph were a few other snapshots, featuring the glittering couple parading down the Parisian avenues hand in hand, lounging on park benches and laughing together, leaning towards each other across tables at intimate bistros, even feeding each other, all without a camera or a crew member in sight. Arthur never caught a glimpse of the crimson scarf he had specified for Elizaveta's character to wear during the Paris sequence. This was clearly neither forged nor filmed.

There was nothing to be misheard or misconstrued, no syllables lacking from this sentence. It was complete, it was undeniable, indisputable, it stood before Arthur's eyes and if he could be sure of nothing else he could at least be sure that this was exceptionally real.

* * *

><p>What's that you say? Where is this bar that allows people to get so raving drunk at such hours of the day? Don't ask me; all I know is what the plot calls for, the plot will receive, haha. xD<p>

SPEAKING OF PLOT, I KNOW I'M BEING CRUEL RIGHT HERE. First I give you guys a short chapter, and now this cliffhanger…I am terribly sorry, you must forgive me. Perhaps with the next chapter, in which Alfred arrives back in LA to find that he has some 'splainin to do (to put it lightly), I will make it up to you.

Let's see…

If anyone doesn't know already, when Elizaveta comments that she feels like Marie Antoinette, Francis tells her to bite her tongue because dear little Queen Marie was something of the villainess of the French Revolution, at least in the eyes of the common people (who were forced to watch her wallow in decadence while they starved in the fields, so this is perhaps understandable). I love the French Revolution, you guys. It's so interesting. Speaking of interesting, the most famous line ever attributed to Marie, "_Let them eat cake," _referring to all that bothersome ruckus those peasants were making outside her palace, was never actually spoken by her, if at all. Honestly, she didn't care enough about the common people to even mention them in passing, and the thought of noticing their antics would have never crossed her mind. This was likely one of the greatest contributors to her eventual death at the hands of _La Guillotine, _the notorious instrument of the Reign of Terror, to which I refer as a woman in direct tribute to **Charles Dickens **and his classic novel _A Tale of Two Cities, _which I originally read for the FrUk (the _two cities_ mentioned in the title are London and Paris) and enjoyed so much that I'm going to write a crossover eventually, you know, take a moment to make old Charles roll around in his grave a bit in disgust. It'll give him something to do.

Yes. I love you, Charles. *blows kiss*

Reviewers should review because I'm back in school and trying to take five classes (because I'm a super-nerd and actually _want _to take two levels of Spanish at once) when I should really only be taking four and that just frankly sucks.

NEXT CHAPTER NEXT WEEK! It's be super long and super full of super stuff that I can't tell you about yet because that would just ruin the SUPER suspense, wouldn't it?

Until then!


	5. Chapter 5

I'm at the beach u gaiz! Along with a Chemistry project, my extra class work, and a gaggle of small children who might lean over my shoulder and wonder why the lovers in my stories both have boy names…

**ANECDOTE CORNER:** So, as many of you probably know, Hurricane Irene ripped through the East Coast last week, and _this_ is how much I love you guys: I actually managed to post the last chapter in the middle of the storm while the power was out in my town. Basically, I borrowed my dad's iphone, telling him that I really needed to check my email, updated the story, and then promptly cleared his web history.

Therefore, I think it's only fitting to dedicate this chapter to U, DAD! LOL FUNNY STORY YOU'LL LIEK NEVAR KNOW!111!11 (Or at least I sure as hell hope not)

Alright. Actual matters of business.

I'm actually surprised that I got as many reviews as I did last week. Sorry if the last chapter made any of you angry. I hope this installment makes up for every offense. Oh, and don't hate on Elizaveta, you guys - she's just doing what any of us would have done in her situation.

**In Brief: **Elizaveta's aforementioned metaphorical bomb detonates, with some very interesting results for our two beloved heroes.

**Gilbert and Roderich…**are so NOT gay, so don't expect them to run off together in this fic anytime soon. My list of heterosexual (male) nations goes as follows: Prussia, Austria, Switzerland. Ironically, this is a favored OT3….but anyways, it is my personal opinion (emphasis on the _personal_) that the guys listed above are very much straight. Well…okay, nobody can say that the Bad Friend's Trio was exactly platonic, so _maybe _Gil's bisexual - maybe. As for the entire rest of the world? Psh, they practically bleed rainbows.

(Oh, and the ladies of Hetalia mostly strike me as straight. Mostly. I do have my doubts about the Ukraine, however. I think it's her tits. They're rather suspicious, amirite?)

Nobody hate me for declaring sexualities. These are merely my private outlooks.

Ahem. And without further ado, the latest installment of _Keep Dreaming, America_.

* * *

><p>Everything, as of late, had been undecided for Arthur, and this theme did not exclude his reaction to the tabloid that portrayed Elizaveta's and Alfred's star-crossed (or perhaps star-studded was the more apt descriptor) relationship with an exactness that detailed every meal the gilded couple shared down to the garnish. Such was his confusion that it was only dully that he heard Gilbert railing in drunken, obviously heartbroken German and Roderich lamenting softly to himself; Arthur himself was unsure of how to feel at the moment, though gradually he realized that merely standing in front of the aisle clutching a magazine as though his life depended on it would eventually attract unwanted attention and returned the tabloid to the rack before he dragged Gilbert, Roderich, and an enormous sack of specialty chicken feed from the pet store.<p>

It was not until he had helped Roderich into a cab and escorted Gilbert back to his couch at World Series Entertainment that Arthur finally was able to reach some sort of conclusion regarding his opinion of the situation.

Firstly, he believed it should be understood that he was neither hurt nor heartbroken. He was no fool and therefore had not allowed whatever he may had previously begun to feel for Alfred distract him from reality; nothing had been promised to him, nothing in Alfred's attentions, nothing in his conversation, nothing even truly in the indistinct outlines of the feelings that he had drawn out for Arthur, for those were so easily misinterpreted that to call them suggestions would be generous. He most certainly did not feel jealous or robbed and would not be found mourning losses or nursing grudges. Elizaveta had stolen nothing from him because there was nothing to steal, or at least nothing more than a grudging friendship and a business contract, both of which could still easily be maintained under these new circumstances.

But therein arose the problem; the circumstances were changed. No, Arthur was not sad or envious or vindictive, he still retained his cynicism and pride after all, but he was very angry. This was not because Alfred had hurt him or abandoned him or snapped his tender heart in two, but because Alfred had mislead him, not by suggesting that he might have feelings for Arthur - Arthur's dignity couldn't be bothered with such matters - but by suggesting that he was also homosexual when in reality he clearly was not. Arthur was furious and humiliated not because Alfred was no longer available, but because it was now clear that Alfred had never been available, that Alfred had been mocking him. And amongst this anger Arthur was a little sad, not because he was nursing a broken heart but because he could no longer trust anything Alfred had ever told him. He could now no longer trust the bumbling but genuine blue-eyed boy because the genuine aspect of his nature, which had always been the most endearing, the best facet of Alfred F. Jones, was lost; he had essentially lied about his sexuality, presumably all for the sake of ruse, and nothing that had come or came from his lips could be believed anymore.

Perhaps Arthur was most angry and most sad because this entire ordeal went entirely against the Alfred Jones of his script, the character into whom the flesh-and-blood Alfred had seemed to fit without flaw, filling the mold Arthur had crafted to the brim without shattering its confines. Now it seemed the boy was a more skillful and cunning actor than he first appeared, and Arthur could think of no idea he disliked more.

He took the bus back to his apartment and put the kettle on for tea. The place seemed terribly empty without Francis and his clutter, and for a moment Arthur took heart in remembering that he and Elizaveta would return from Europe in two days, only to recall who would be accompanying them and sink deeper into his anger. He steeped his tea and sat down on their old fold-out sofa. He was tired from the day's ordeal and the gin he had drunk earlier was wearing off; he considered fixing himself a stiff glass of something but decided against it, knowing that one glass would lead to another, then another, and that getting drunk would probably not be very conductive to his current state of mind.

Sunday, he decided, would be spent with sleep and reading, thumbing through old books with pages that had seen themselves dog-eared a thousand times and would no doubt serve as comforts to him. This would primarily serve as a method of composing himself – Arthur vowed to meet his colleagues at the studio on Monday with nothing but congratulations and his usual warmth for Elizaveta (she carried no blame in this situation and he loved her too dearly to conjure some sort of crime for her to have committed) and detachment for Alfred. Possibly, he considered, if he could get the boy in private for a moment, he might give him a stern lecture regarding the follies of telling fibs about one's sexuality, then afterwards they could return to what they had shared before their friendship had begun: a simple brand of mutual ignorance, perhaps occasionally breached by Alfred's overt tendencies and taste for annoying Arthur. But, he promised himself, they would never again step beyond that boundary. Arthur didn't want to do so; he didn't need to do so. If he was absolutely positive about one thing, it was that his life would continue quite easily without the disruption of Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

><p>Paris was lovely, Europe was grand and ancient and unshakeable and filled to the brim with culture and light and fantastic food and wine, but even so Alfred found that little compared to the swelling sensation he felt in his heart when he stepped from the airplane concourse into the terminal and heard greetings cried in English, watched people who all seemed somehow familiar rush to embrace each other across the airport, saw the American flag hanging from the far wall, and most of all, detected the faintest suggestion of hamburgers in the air. Los Angeles may have been a broken city that was fast crumbling into a veritable ghost town, but despite all of this, despite the decline and the restlessness and the animosity among her own people, Alfred was immediately reminded of the brightness that he was now reassured would never quite fade from his country.<p>

His mood went unaltered by Francis' ostentatious sigh, presumably designed to express his distaste at stepping back onto American soil after his feet had floated over not merely French but Parisian earth, and he nearly skipped down the escalator and towards their baggage claim, completely oblivious to the winking of the cameras at his and Elizaveta's backs as they tore through the airport and then screeched to a halt so that they could wait to receive their luggage. A few people asked for their autographs or congratulated them, and though Alfred was sure he would never become entirely accustomed to fame, he beamed nevertheless and winked at every admirer, effectively dissolving them.

Elizaveta had to quell her smirk of victory as she reached out to lug her baggage from the conveyor belt only to discover that Alfred had beaten her to the punch; the cameras were positively seizing with excitement at his display of gallantry. The horde of paparazzi haunting their steps had not doubled, not tripled, not even, Elizaveta fancied, quadrupled or quintupled, but rather increased by six-fold, since their little sojourn. She had been worried that the fresh fervor for herself and Alfred could be attributed to the dizzying glamour of Paris, but her doubts had so far proved to be in vain; the swarm had followed them back to the home-front and was just as rapacious as ever.

Alfred was arranging both his and her luggage on one of the carts offered by the airport, and when he caught her gaze he grinned dopily at her and gave her a tiny salute. When she joined him he was still putting the finishing touches on the somewhat forebodingly unstable tower of suitcases, but immediately launched into his typical chattering as he worked.

"…so anyways," he was saying, "what do you think Artie's gonna say when he sees the stuff we filmed? Is he gonna be totally thrilled or what! Oh, man…" She glanced down at him and saw that his grin had softened almost imperceptibly around the edges. He reached up and straightened his glasses, his expression growing more thoughtful. "…I can't wait to see his face." His eyes suddenly flickered up at her almost nervously for a moment and she thought she could perceive the faintest suggestion of a blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "When he sees the footage, I mean."

At this she was unable to suppress the smirk any longer.

"Of course, Alfred. What else would I think you meant?"

And with that she took him by the arm and led them towards the taxi Francis had since hailed down. They piled into the backseat together and Alfred promptly fell asleep, dropping his cheerful façade in favor of surrendering to the effects of jet lag. Francis patted his head almost paternally and then took to gazing out the window, probably losing himself in pretentious reminiscences of his home country. Elizaveta crossed one leg over the other, folded her hands in her lap, and leaned back into the seat rest, immensely pleased with herself. When Alfred let out a little snore and an unintelligible murmur through his sleep, her smirk returned.

She had nearly forgotten that the best was yet to come.

* * *

><p>When Arthur awoke on Monday he found Francis sprawled on the floor on their old air mattress, still dressed in a fine silk shirt and clutching a pillow to his chest. He smiled exasperatedly, stumbled towards their kitchenette to put the kettle on, then prodded Francis' side with his foot, provoking an exhausted moan before he finally managed to rouse him.<p>

"Arthur, _mon cher,_" cried Francis when he was more or less fully awake and had recalled his surroundings. "How wonderful it is to see you. I would have woken you when I got in last night but I'm afraid you were already asleep."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really. Your breath positively reeks alcohol, I can smell it from here."

Francis coughed into the cup of his hand and blinked.

"So it does," he seemed to consider this for a moment. "Ah yes! I remember now! Alfred and Elizaveta and I stopped for drinks to combat the jet lag," he grimaced. "It seems we were carried away."

"I'll say," muttered Arthur, fondly nonetheless. Francis' accent had thickened considerably even with the short time he had spent back in his home country and he served as an almost comforting reminder of the normalcy to which Arthur was so desperate to return. "Do you want some tea?"

"Please," yawned Francis, standing up from the mattress and making a face as it sunk to the floor, entirely deflated. "But first I am going to take a shower; I feel as though I am positively covered in aeroplane."

Arthur nodded, folding up the sleeper sofa and making himself some toast while the water boiled. When Francis returned, a towel between his neck and shoulders and hair hanging dripping around his face, he accepted the mug offered to him gratefully and sat down on the couch, where Arthur soon joined him.

"So," Arthur began, suddenly cautious. Would Francis mention Alfred and Elizaveta or merely assume that Arthur had already heard? "How was _le cité de amour, mon ami?_" He drawled out the last syllables sarcastically and Francis rolled his eyes.

"_Magnifique, bien entendu, mais je ne t'espère pas comprendre mon amour pour Paris…mais d'ailleurs…_" he smiled fondly. "We filmed some truly magnificent scenes; we think you'll appreciate them and were hoping to show them to you today."

"I should hope so," said Arthur sharply. "You're going to show me every instant of footage there is to be shown, I won't be left out of anything in the slightest."

Francis laughed and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "Elizaveta and our dear Alfred were positively marvelous," he told him contentedly, and Arthur swallowed his tea rather too quickly. "I have never seen either of them express such raw emotion in their words before. I suppose it is true, what they say," he sighed excessively. "The beauty of Paris infects the heart and mind."

Arthur raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but even upon closer inspection there was no trace of sarcasm or malice to be found in Francis' words. It was uncharacteristic of him to be so ignorant, especially when it came to romance, but then again, he was still very jetlagged and faintly hungover, so perhaps Arthur would be spared his predictable series of barbed comments and remarks until he had freshened up a little more. If Arthur was ridiculously lucky, his friend would actually choose to be sensitive regarding this particular situation, but that outcome seemed highly doubtful. Even so, Francis said nothing of Alfred or Elizaveta as they dressed and washed up for work, merely rambling on about the exquisite sightseeing and dining that he had nearly forgotten his beloved city had to offer. Arthur was grateful, it would be easier for him to maintain his composure throughout the day when it wasn't shaken first thing in the morning, and tolerated the monologue considerably well. He was even starting to believe that everything could really stay as simple as it seemed at the moment, that everything could be solved through his simple conclusion that he was not heartbroken, only angry, and they could really return to business as usual just as Arthur had been desperate to do ever since Alfred had dragged him out to explore Los Angeles on their impromptu day off.

However, when Arthur stepped into World Series Entertainment and entered the elevator to find Alfred and Elizaveta already inside, when he accepted Elizaveta's embrace and, looking over her shoulder, observed a beaming Alfred, took in his crisp black suit jacket and printed t-shirt and worn, fitted blue jeans, the gold in his hair and the blue in his eyes and gleam in the always-smudged frames of his glasses, and when he received his grin and his wide-opened arms, clearly inviting an embrace, with nothing more than a stiff good morning and a quick bob of his head, when he had to watch his expression change from surprise to confusion before he composed himself to greet Francis, it became clear that from this one conclusion stemmed a thousand fresh dilemmas.

"You_ must_ see the stuff we filmed, Arthur, it's absolutely brilliant," Elizaveta was saying eagerly, wrapping her hands around the crook of his arm. "Oh, I wish you could have been there, it was incredible; you would have loved it!"

"Totally," piped up Alfred, apparently recovered from the initial shock of Arthur's coldness. "The movie theaters made us think of you. There was so much enthusiasm, man, you really wouldn't believe it."

"I wish I could have been there too," Arthur told Elizaveta, warmly patting the hand she had on his elbow. To Alfred, he merely added: "You know, in Europe, they're called cinemas."

The elevator doors chimed open at their floor and Arthur stepped out so quickly and stared straight ahead so determinedly that he didn't hear Francis' suppressed snickering or catch Elizaveta's struggle to maintain a composed expression even though she still hovered at his elbow. He nearly tore down the hall and through the doors that led to their usual set without glancing behind him to see if Alfred and Francis were in pursuit. The camera crew was already at work setting up their equipment, the makeup artists were in an absolute frenzy, the assistants were bustling around arranging long tables of fruit and sandwiches, and Arthur's heart began to slow, considerably comforted by the sight of their routine resumed.

"It's nice to be back," sighed Elizaveta. They were alone at the moment and suddenly Arthur was terrified that she was going to give him the news of her relationship, but she merely remained observing contentedly at his elbow until Alfred and Francis rejoined them, brandishing a few rolls of film.

"Come, _mes amis,_" grinned Francis, gesturing towards a little room off to the side of the set. "It is time we show _nôtre cher _Arthur the magic we have made, _ou non?" _

Elizaveta beamed and clapped excitedly, running ahead of Arthur to follow Alfred and Francis into the side room. Although she fell into step beside Alfred, she didn't take his hand or even this arm like she had with Arthur, and he thought that altogether they were behaving remarkably unromantically, especially for such a new and highly publicized couple. Arthur briefly considered that the tabloid Gilbert had discovered in the pet store had been false, but quickly dismissed this idea, seeing as the entire city of Los Angeles was caught up in a veritable frenzy regarding their brand new golden couple, even going so far as to broadcast a few news stories reporting on their travels in Paris. There was neither doubt to be had nor created, and therefore Arthur was still considerably angry and humiliated at being so deceived. He was beginning to wish more fervently that there would soon be an opportunity to give Alfred a good talking to, as he very well deserved.

Despite this, he sat down beside Francis in the dark editing room with perfect composure, dedicated to not giving Alfred the satisfaction of seeing him so obviously discomfited. He chatted about Paris and cinema quietly, for all dark rooms seem to impose hushed voices on the people inside, with Elizaveta while Alfred sat with his hands folded on his lap, a curiously pensive expression obvious on his face even in the dimness, and Francis fiddled with the machinery until the screen crackled to life with color and the air abruptly filled with sound.

Arthur really should have remembered that nearly every scene filmed in Paris was extremely romantic; he was finding it harder and harder to maintain his impassive posture and expression as he was forced to watch Alfred and Elizaveta stroll leisurely across the banks of the Seine, their pace no doubt slowed by the severity of their love, frolic through the Parisian gardens and museums, stare into each other's eyes across the tables in quaint French bistros, and kiss in front of the Notre Dame cathedral, all performed with a violently real sense of honesty and emotion that Arthur had never seen them display before and could only explain by the presence of a budding off-screen love that had eventually blossomed, as was made evident by the final kiss scene. At least, Arthur considered, the crimson scarf that he had so carefully designated for Elizaveta's character during this sequence flattered the adoration on her face and the high color in her cheeks, which, he noted, was surely beyond the skill of any makeup artist to forge. He supposed he could now rightfully consider himself a genius of allegory; the texture and mobility of the fabric personified her feelings down to the slightest irregularity of a heartbeat, and the color, of course, was iconic and truly perfect. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she became famous for that scarf after the release of the film.

The footage sputtered to an end and when Arthur turned his gaze from the screen, he was startled to find that where Francis and Elizaveta had been at his sides moments before, they now were nowhere to be found. Alfred, however, was still there, and when he glanced around himself and realized their situation, he turned to Arthur, who had been staring at him but immediately averted his gaze, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, said Arthur's name, and was cut off by a hand raised to stop him.

"Whatever you may be trying to accomplish, Alfred F. Jones," Arthur said shortly, glaring at him from behind his raised hand. "I can assure you that it is not very wise."

"But Arthur - "

"Alfred, what did I just tell you?"

Alfred blinked. He looked hurt; Arthur wasn't sure what to make of that.

"But I just don't understand…"

Trying to ignore the dizzying speed of his pulse, Arthur raised an eyebrow sharply and Alfred trailed off at the sight of his expression.

"What, exactly, is there to be misunderstood in this situation?"

Alfred blinked again, then bit down on his lower lip, his eyebrows drawing together.

"I just don't get…why you're being so cold to me all of a sudden."

Arthur sighed exasperatedly for effect.

"What do you mean, I'm not being cold, Alfred."

"What…yes you _are!_" Alfred's voice broke angrily on the last syllable; Arthur was not prepared to hear something like that in his tone and swallowed abruptly, glad the dimness of the room disguised the fresh color he could feel in his cheeks. "You didn't seem glad to see me this morning, in fact, you barely acknowledged me! Arthur, stop looking away!" Arthur turned his glare on him and Alfred faltered. "I mean…it's just that…you're acting like you did when we first met, before we ever became friends…"

"We were never friends, Alfred." Alfred's eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly, but if Arthur was angry before, he was furious then. To hear Alfred sound so genuinely heartbroken was only a reminder of his surprisingly cunning acting skills; how dare he attempt to make Arthur out as the villain, how dare he, after lying to him and blatantly mocking his sexuality! It was beyond forgiveness.

"I…" Alfred was saying, sounding a little lost. Goodness, he was talented; if he didn't nab an Oscar for his skill Arthur would be surprised. "I can't believe…I thought…no, I was sure we were..!"

At that last forlorn syllable, which Arthur would have believed and been broken by had he not known better, he sprung from his chair and violently pointed an accusing finger at Alfred, who flinched so believably that Arthur let out a harsh laugh.

"Good show, old boy, really marvelous," he chuckled before his voice hardened. "_Friends, _Alfred, if you haven't heard, don't lie or mock one another."

"Arthur, what are you - "

Arthur held up his hand.

"_Friends _would never mislead each other all for the sake of a bloody joke!"

"I don't know what you're - "

"Alfred!"

Alfred fell quiet; it could be easily seen that Arthur was beyond himself with anger.

"As I was saying," he continued between his teeth. "_Friends _are honest with each other, _friends _support each other regardless of personal…quirks…in short, Alfred, _friends _don't coax each other into a false sense of security before outright lying about their fucking sexuality for a laugh!"

At this, Alfred was on his feet as well, eyes glinting with anger.

"Arthur, I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I never-!"

"Oh for goodness' sake, Alfred, who the hell do you think you're kidding anymore?" Arthur faintly registered that he was shouting now and found that he didn't care. "It's not as if I give a damn about the other shit you might or might not have suggested regarding you and me, but when you lie to a gay man about being gay, well, that is absolutely beyond forgiveness! Oh, don't give me that look, that sort of stunned innocent expression. You basically said so, Alfred, and you would have if it weren't for Gilbert, and you fucking know it so don't try to deny it. You told me that you were gay, and look, you can do whatever you like regarding your own relationships, Alfred, it's not as if I ever cared or hoped or anything, but to tell a homosexual, an effective outcast from society, that you're just like him, that you might be able to bleeding _understand_ him, when you're not, and you aren't? That's cruel, Alfred, and it mocks who I am, and I absolutely _will not stand for it!_"

He took a deep breath. Alfred was obviously stunned beyond words.

"I have my pride, you know," sighed Arthur, exhausted. "It would do you well not to trample on it."

He turned to leave but felt Alfred's hand snag on the edge of his sleeve.

"I didn't lie," he said.

"Stop it, Alfred."

"But I didn't!" His voice broke in indignation. "I really am gay! I mean it! Where the hell is this coming from, Arthur? Why would I lie about something like that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur turned back around, feeling the angry heat rising again in his face and neck. "I merely assumed it was for a good laugh, but perhaps you'd like to explain, Alfred?"

"But Arthur…why would I ever want to laugh at you?" His expression was so plaintive that Arthur felt his heart skip a beat in spite of himself. "I admire you, I respect you, I've said so before and I stand by it now! Arthur," his voice softened and Arthur felt faintly ill. "Where on earth is this coming from?"

Arthur laughed shortly and ripped his sleeve from Alfred's grasp.

"Alright then, if you're so curious I'll tell you where it's coming from, Alfred. Where it's fucking _coming from _is the tabloid I found in the store, the newscasts I've been watching on the tele, the incessant _talk _in this sodding town, all about you and Elizaveta and your brand-bloody-new status as America's golden boy and _girl, _Alfred, _girl, _because the last time I checked she's got two tits and no dick and that pretty much establishes you as a liar! That's where this is _coming from!_"

Alfred was silent for a moment then let out a cry of exasperation.

"Is that what it is? Oh my god, you're kidding me," he glanced up to see the Arthur was most certainly not kidding him and his eyes hardened. "I am so going to kill Francis, he totally said he would tell you but now it's pretty fucking obvious that he hasn't! Oh, man, he is so dead!"

Arthur was only getting angrier with Alfred's babbling.

"I don't see how Francis has anything to do with this," he said tersely, arching an eyebrow. "At least try to think up a better excuse."

"No, man, you don't understand," Alfred actually let out a short little laugh. "It's all a joke, don't you get it? Or, not a joke, more of a ploy. It was all Elizaveta's idea, you see. She was trying to think of a way for us to get more publicity and more money and stuff and she realized that I was a total fruit and so if she and I pretended to have a relationship it wouldn't hurt our friendship and would drive the paparazzi totally nuts, which it has, and bring us lots of attention and therefore lots more budget and stuff to make the movie better, and it has brought in more stuff, like, more than we ever expected!" He made a big windmill sort of motion with his hands. "And Francis was supposed to tell you about the whole thing when he got back but…" he blinked sheepishly at Arthur. "Judging by your expression right now I'm gonna guess that never happened."

Arthur really couldn't believe this display of acting prowess; it was so well done, everything, Alfred's posture, the fretful line of his brows, the bashful wringing of his hands, that it was difficult to perceive as the façade it was and Arthur was nearly convinced despite himself.

Nearly.

"Christ, Alfred, you really think I'm a fool, don't you?"

Alfred blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll give you credit for thinking up an impressive excuse, but do you really expect me to believe it? I mean, honestly. I may have trusted you before but I'm certainly not going to again."

Alfred's mouth was hanging open.

"But…Arthur…I'm not…I swear to you, it's the truth!"

"If you applied that sort of skill to the camera you'd win every Oscar there is, Alfred, I really almost believe you're being honest."

"What…that's because I _am_! I mean it, just go and ask Elizaveta!"

Arthur chuckled. "I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me chasing around your lies."

"I'm _not lying to you, _Arthur!"

Arthur chose to ignore this. "Perhaps, and I mean perhaps," he glared at Alfred warningly. "We can talk about apologies later, when you're not too busy making up stories. However, until then, my dear boy," he waggled his fingers in the air and turned to make for the door. "…this conversation is over."

He was stopped a few feet from his destination by Alfred's grabbing onto his shoulders and forcing him to turn and look him in the eye.

"Don't you understand?" he cried, giving Arthur a slight shake. "I'm not lying to you because _I can't!_"

Arthur curled his upper lip into a sneer, wishing Alfred would loosen his hold enough so that he could avoid his gaze.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Alfred sighed in exasperation, looking as if he would pull at his hair if his hands weren't otherwise occupied. "Don't you see, Arthur? There's something about you, I don't know what it is, that makes it so that I just can't lie around you! I can't do it! I say things to you, sometimes, that I wasn't even sure I knew myself! It's crazy, Arthur, and I can't tell what it is. But," he flexed his fingers on Arthur's shoulders to emphasize his point. "I can tell you that I am _not _lying to you."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Oh, very convincing. You must be telling the truth because you simply can't lie to me because," he quirked an eyebrow patronizingly. "Because why, again?"

"Because," Alfred was shouting now. "_I'm incapable!_"

They were both stunned into silence for a moment. Alfred's hands had fallen slack on Arthur's shoulders and he could have escaped if he wanted, but instead he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and without warning exploded into a breathless grin.

"Did you hear that?" cried Alfred ecstatically, Arthur's smile mirrored on his face.

"I bloody very well did!"

"I said it!"

"You said it!" Arthur laughed with delight before he furrowed his brows and ran for the door, Alfred in pursuit. "Fuck, where's Francis…we gotta find him…I certainly hope the film crew is ready…Alfred!" he pointed. "For all that you hold dear, you stupid boy, run go find Elizaveta! We can't let this moment go to waste!"

Fortunately, the set currently established in the studio was the exact one necessary for filming that particular scene, and by the time Arthur had fished Francis from a crowd of giggling makeup artists and explained the situation to him, Alfred had already fetched Elizaveta and they were getting into costume as quickly as possible, changing in full view of the crew and the assistants, all shame forgotten in their haste to get in front of the cameras. Arthur was so caught up in the rush and the thrill of the moment that he didn't even think of what had just occurred in the screening room until Francis was established on his director's chair and the cameras were rolling, and then he considered that Alfred had never been able to say that line until he had truly meant it, and perhaps if he had truly meant it, and therefore meant everything else, then perhaps Arthur had been mistaken, and then perhaps he was entirely mortified.

"Arthur," Francis leaned over and whispered in his ear when he noticed the flush in his cheeks and how he fidgeted with his collar. "That boy is as uninterested in Elizaveta as you or I. It is nothing but a ploy, a strategy to enlarge our budget."

"I…I…" Arthur took a deep breath, willing his neck and face to cool. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Francis merely chuckled.

"He is a fool, but an honest fool. Alfred is telling you the truth."

Arthur swallowed. "Wait a minute…Francis…" he furrowed his brow as he began to realize something. "If you knew all along then why didn't you -"

"Arthur," Francis sighed. "You are a brilliant screenwriter, but at times your plotlines can tend to lag. When this happens, Elizaveta and I know when to give your scripts a little encouragement, if you follow me, speed up the dialogue so that the, ahm, audience, so to speak, does not become bored." And with this he picked up his microphone and called the end of the scene, springing from his chair to congratulate Elizaveta and Alfred on a flawless performance before Arthur could react.

Alfred was beaming with the thrill of success at long last, standing there with his hips jutted slightly forwards and one hand tucked in the pocket of the costume bomber jacket as he gave Francis a victory high-five with the other. His glasses were slightly askew on his face and, in their rush to get him ready for the cameras, the hairstylists had forgotten to gel the persistent tuft of hair that usually stuck up from his forehead; it bobbed with the rhythm of his voice. There was a faint flush of excitement in his cheeks and when he laughed the sound was short with giddiness. Arthur had to fight down the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and tiptoed across the set, slipping behind one of the plywood walls in the hopes of finding a quiet spot to recover his composure before he apologized to Alfred for refusing to hear him out.

He was just running over what exactly he was going to say in his head when he heard someone knocking on the side of the plywood; he whipped around, prepared to scold whoever it was for giving him a fright, only to fall wordless when he saw that the intruder was Alfred.

"Hey, Arthur," he said, smiling tentatively. "I…um…so, that was pretty great, huh?"

Arthur fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt. "Yes, I daresay it was quite amazing, Alfred. You've certainly grown as an actor."

Alfred chuckled. "So you've pointed out."

Arthur felt his cheeks grow warm.

"I…well I…well…I can't be blamed for…just because Francis…and then you…and…" he glared, the planned apology falling lame on his tongue. "I'm still rather peeved at you, I hope you understand."

Alfred took a step towards him then stopped and rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. "What for?"

"Just…in general."

Alfred sniggered. "That's the Artie I know."

"Yes, well. At least you're accustomed to him."

They were now only a few feet or so apart; Alfred stood there for a moment, hands still stuffed into his jacket pockets, chewing distractedly on his lower lip as though he were considering something. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and took another step towards Arthur, leaning his body forwards, apparently set straight on a course for collision. Arthur, understandably, stepped to the side, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Alfred didn't answer, merely sidestepped and attempted the curious lunge again, and this time he would have struck Arthur somewhere around the shoulder had Arthur not stepped backwards to avoid his strange maneuver.

"I say, are you having some sort of stroke?"

"Argh, Artie, just stay still for a minute!" And he repeated the motion; Arthur sidestepped him and jammed his hands on his hips.

"First of all, don't call me that, and second of all, I will most certainly do no such thing, at least not until you give me a reason." He had to avoid Alfred again; by now they had nearly completed a circle. "Christ, Alfred, you're acting extremely weird. I demand that you explain yourself."

"I don't gotta explain nothing…" said Arthur as he lunged forwards to find himself sidestepped again. "You'd figure it out just fine if you stayed still for two seconds!"

"It's you _haven't _got_ to _explain _anything,_" corrected Arthur, stopping with his back against the wall of the set and folding his arms across his chest. "And, very well then. I'm still. Now explain yourself."

Alfred seemed to take a deep breath, and to Arthur's surprise put his hands on his shoulders, then leaned forwards again, hesitating a moment before closing his eyes and making a curious sort of face, and it was only then that Arthur figured it out.

When he tried to pull himself away he ended up causing Alfred's mouth to ram into his chin rather sharply; he let out a cry of surprise that was mirrored by Alfred's own cry of pain.

"Jesus Christ, Arthur, that _hurt!_"

"I - I don't very well give a damn!" Arthur knew that he must be a very deep shade of pink from the heat about his neck and ears. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to kiss you, what do you think?" roared Alfred, clutching his swollen lower lip before he seemed to realize what he had just said and blushed very deeply indeed. "I…er I…"

Arthur readily filled the silence. "You can't just go bloody assaulting people at random, you idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I…what? It wasn't assault! That definitely doesn't classify as assault!"

"In what way?"

"Well…in that…" Alfred's brow furrowed. "Well, it wasn't random!"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "How so?"

"Well," Alfred hesitated. "Well, it might have seemed random to you but I've kind of been thinking about it for a while so it wasn't really…" he looked at the ground. "…._random, _per se…I mean…er…I…" he faltered. "I guess I…"

Arthur sighed and glanced up at Alfred's face. His brows were furrowed and he was back to chewing on his lower lip, swollen from its collision with Arthur's chin, and he wrung his fingers together sheepishly. The frames of his glasses were still askew across his face and the high color was still in his cheeks; when he tentatively met Arthur's gaze his eyes were wide and worried and very blue indeed, and Arthur felt his heart soften and his face warm and that feeling that he had never quite been able to classify as hope thrum to life in his chest again. The sensation was for the most part the same as it always was, except stronger, more persuasive, forcing him to take a step forwards, though he rolled his eyes exasperatedly as he did so, and to take Alfred's tie in one hand while the other hooked beneath his chin, breathlessly waiting out that moment of hesitation before he decided that he was sick of indecision, closed his eyes, tilted his head at a promising angle, and, by stretching upwards slightly and pulling Alfred gently down by his tie, pressed their lips together.

Alfred was unresponsive for a moment and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat in fear before he felt the kiss slowly begin to be returned. A moment of this passed before Alfred tentatively looped his arms around Arthur's waist; smiling against his mouth, Arthur reached up to wind his fingers through his hair, tilting his chin to the side and parting his lips slightly, hesitantly. Alfred opened his mouth and Arthur was relieved to find that he didn't taste of hamburgers of coca-cola or else something ridiculously American, but rather only faintly of cigarette smoke, if anything at all. After another long moment of this Arthur pulled away, letting his hands fall to rest on Alfred's shoulders.

Alfred exhaled deeply, eyes still closed, grinning just as insipidly as he always had. Arthur smirked.

"See how much more easily things go when you ask first?"

Alfred chuckled, opening his eyes to wink at him. "But you didn't ask me, either."

Arthur shrugged. "I at least gave some form of indication before throwing myself at you."

Alfred smiled more deeply, eyes gleaming, and Arthur felt his own composure wavering.

"Alright, then, Arthur," Alfred said softly. "Can I kiss you now?"

"_May _I kiss you -" Arthur began, but his words were cut off and he sighed, wrapping his arms more tightly around Alfred's neck and digging his fingers into the supple leather of his jacket as he felt the flat of his palms press against the small of his back before they traveled downwards, over his lower back and down to rest on the swell of his behind.

Abruptly they heard loud, sarcastic clapping from behind them, and jumped apart, Arthur blushing furiously as Alfred shamelessly wiped his mouth on the corner of his sleeve. Elizaveta was leering triumphantly at them, her expression aglow with the thrill of her accomplishment.

"E-Elizaveta!" Arthur wasn't quite sure how to react. "It's not…it's not what it looks like?" He realized how ridiculous the words sounded the moment he had said them but nonetheless glared at Alfred when he sniggered.

"If it's not, then to be honest I'm a little disappointed…" Still, Elizaveta reached over and pinched Alfred's cheek affectionately. "Oh, Alfred," she sighed exaggeratedly. "How dare you cheat on me with this…this _man!_" She pointed melodramatically at Arthur and the two of them dissolved into fits of giggling. "Is that how you thought I'd react, Arthur?"

"I…well I…"

She smiled affectionately at him. "Relax, my friend. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan."

"According to plan?" Arthur quirked a brow. He would certainly like to hear of this entire scheme from its apparent mastermind.

"Yep!" she beamed. "Firstly, because Alfie dear and I are playing Hollywood's golden couple, we get a ton of publicity and therefore a ton more money for the movie. Secondly, because to the unaided eye it seems that I am currently occupied," she patted Alfred's arm affectionately. "Gil and Roderich will leave me alone for the moment and I can use the time and breathing room to straighten out my thoughts about them. And thirdly," she turned to Arthur again, smiling warmly. "Now you and Alfred can be together without the scrutiny of the cameras. Provided, of course, that you tiptoe around a bit. Everybody wins, but Elizaveta the most, because I get money, fewer annoyances, and to get off on seeing you two together."

"Wait a minute…" Arthur blinked. "Did you just say get off on -"

"Hold on!" Alfred cut him off, addressing Elizaveta. "So you and I are quote-on-quote _staying together_ even now?"

"Well of course you are," said Arthur matter-of-factly, and Alfred blinked at him, obviously surprised. "I mean, it's only logical. After all, we need money, I'm also tired of being annoyed by Roderich and Gilbert, and you and I don't want to draw any negative attention to ourselves. They say all press is good press, Alfred, but they lie." Arthur returned Elizaveta's smile. "It's better this way."

"But…seeing me and her together…it wouldn't bother you?" Alfred blinked at him suspiciously. Arthur merely shrugged.

"Well, now that I know it's all a ruse, no." He suddenly blushed. "N-not that it really bothered me before, I'm not a fool, you know, I was just angry because it looked like you had lied to me about being gay and whatnot. A-also, there's nothing saying we have to get terribly serious or anything right off the bat, or get serious at all, come to think of it, and besides, it's not like I'm not some psychotic jealous type to begin with, I mean…I'd just rather…" he faltered. "I'd just rather like to see where…this goes, you know?"

Alfred was silent for a moment, then he positively beamed, and Arthur felt his heart plummet.

"Yeah," Alfred said simply. "Me too."

Elizaveta stifled a squeal by biting down hard on her knuckle. They were gazing into each other's eyes…they were actually gazing into each other's eyes! It was just like a scene from one of her romance novels, meaning it was simply too good to actually exist, and yet, there they were, staring dopily at each other in light of their confessions.

"Everybody wins!" she cried giddily before stepping quickly back from behind the set, grinning like a madwoman. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. Everything had gone according to her plans: they would have money, she would be less annoyed, and Arthur, oh, Arthur, who deserved nothing more in the world than to finally keep a treasure for himself, now had one more golden than any she had ever seen.

Elizaveta triumphantly decided that she truly was a mastermind.

* * *

><p>It was a miracle they made it up the stairs at all, really.<p>

After they were interrupted by Elizaveta it was about time to get back to work; they filmed and rehearsed and edited and saw infuriatingly little of each other until their work was done, at which point they went out for drinks at that bar Arthur always seemed to end up in at the end of the day. They both had scotches, perhaps in unspoken testament to the impromptu sleepover that, in light of these new circumstances, could be considered their first date, and talked about Alfred's impressions of Paris and Europe and Arthur's dull week spent without them, and of the Parisian cinema and of the enthusiasm and passion Alfred had seen that he so sorely wished to return to Los Angeles. Arthur had put a hand on his shoulder and promised him that all was not lost and Alfred had smiled and thanked him for saying so. Altogether, they looked and felt remarkably normal, and if it weren't for the added warmth in their smiles and gestures they would have been old friends out to reminisce on their glory days and past girlfriends. How ironic that the opposite was true.

This sense of normalcy, however, was quickly forgotten in the dizzying rhythm of their heartbeats when they kissed, too briefly, in the alleyway outside the bar, the alcohol on their breaths mingling. Unthinkingly, they took the bus back to Alfred's apartment. They were followed on occasion by the snapping eyes of cameras, though the loss of privacy was of little importance seeing as they were still too nervous around each other to do such romantic things as hold hands or whisper sweet nothings at all, let alone in public.

The stairwell, however, was another matter entirely, and on the first landing, when Alfred grabbed Arthur by the shoulders, pressed him against the wall and wrapped his arms firmly around his waist, Arthur could only be thankful that there were no other people nearby because he dissolved into the kiss and dug his fingers into Alfred's hair and, though he refrained, desperately wanted to hook his leg around his hips.

Eventually they heard voices, and, giggling like schoolchildren, broke apart and took the stairs to Alfred's door two at a time, clinging to each other's hands now both as a means of balance and of staying connected, for they found that at this point, when everything was so fresh and ready to be explored, even the briefest separation was nearly unendurable. In fact, Alfred had his tongue back in Arthur's throat before he even managed to fit the key into his lock, and they stumbled through the doorway, laughing and cursing as they nearly fell over and only managed to right themselves by grabbing onto the coat rack.

When they were both standing again, Arthur eagerly wound his arms around Alfred's neck, but faltered a moment, hesitantly meeting his gaze.

"Alfred, are you sure you want to…" he trailed off. "I mean, it's rather soon, don't you think?"

Alfred chuckled and brushed him thumb across Arthur's cheek.

"We don't have to do anything tonight," he said softly, pressing their foreheads together. "But…I don't want to say goodnight quite yet, either."

Arthur smiled, digging his fingers into the leather of Alfred's collar as if to hold him there. "Me neither."

"Well then," Alfred tilted his face and leaned closer so that their lips nearly touched. "Let's not say it, hmm?"

Arthur nodded and closed the distance between them, just enjoying the feel of Alfred for a moment before he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, running his hands through Alfred's hair and pressing himself into his chest, sighing in appreciation as he began to draw slow circles across his back with his hands. They continued this for a few minutes, then Alfred pulled away and suddenly began to trail his mouth down Arthur's neck, breathing into the soft skin at the conjunction of the line of his jaw and neck, leaving a kiss so light Arthur wasn't even sure if his lips had touched him before he journeyed further downwards, biting gently at his jugular. Arthur sighed and ran his hands through the soft golden hair at the nape of Alfred's neck, then down his back, then further, experimentally testing the curve of his behind through his jeans.

Alfred chuckled smugly against his collarbone and Arthur gave him a quick pinch as a retort; he yelped and laughed out loud, bringing their faces up again so he could cup Arthur's cheek in one hand and kiss him properly. Eventually his hands began to wander, thumbs sliding down Arthur's sides, and Arthur transitioned to his ear, biting down gently and smiling at Alfred's little intake of breath. Eventually Arthur grew impatient and found himself struggling with Alfred's jacket; despite their conversation beforehand Alfred shrugged out of it as quickly as he could without breaking their kiss and then tossed it to the floor, drawing Arthur in close again by the waist.

Now Arthur could really appreciate Alfred, really feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, really get the suggestions of his muscles through the thin cloth, could run his hands up and down his exposed arms, caress his neck without the hindrance of a leather collar. Alfred moaned, only very softly, but even so Arthur desperately pressed closer to him so that his elbows were hooked over his shoulders and they only remained upright because of the support of the wall. The thrumming in Arthur's chest was swelling to the point where it seemed to threaten to snap his ribcage.

Alfred pulled away for a moment so that he could gasp that they should transition to the living room, and Arthur nodded before he kissed him again and they stumbled forwards, only halfheartedly struggling to maintain their balance because Alfred's hands were fumbling with the buttons on Arthur's shirt and Arthur's hands were tangled in his hair and they were still kissing in spite of the inconvenience. Alfred had three buttons undone before they tumbled to the floor of his living room amidst the towering piles of movies, a situation which was rather fitting, all things considered. Laughing, Alfred pulled Arthur up to rest on his chest and kissed his cheeks and chin and nose but very determinedly not his mouth, one hand resting on the back of his head, grinning all the while. Arthur tried to right himself but was stopped when Alfred finally touched his lips, giving up his efforts at dignity entirely and surrendering to the kiss, though he bit down on Alfred's lower lip to chastise him for his presumption. The fourth button of Arthur's shirt came somehow undone, and the collar was beginning to fall from his shoulders as he exasperatedly thrust his hands beneath Alfred's t-shirt and began to try to pull it over his head; a good portion of his stomach was exposed when they heard someone cough lightly from above them.

"I have no qualms with what you guys are doing, but if you go at it missionary style I'm going to have to leave; I mean, come on, that is _so _mainstream."

They leapt apart, Arthur desperately trying to pull up the collar of his shirt while Alfred went leaping to his feet to inform Matthew, who had been perched on Alfred's couch the whole time, that missionary style wasn't exactly the same for two guys, _duh, _he should _totally _know that by now, being gay himself, and therefore wouldn't be _so mainstream_, as he liked to put it.

"I still think it's unoriginal," was Matthew's opinion, and Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Well, dude, it's like, the first time, what do you expect?"

Before Matthew could answer, Arthur had stood up, blushing furiously and clutching his shirt to his shoulders.

"E-excuse me Alfred, but it wasn't going to _be _anything at all, I mean, we were just -"

"Just humping each other on my floor?" asked Matthew, raising an eyebrow.

"Hold on," cried Alfred. "This is _my_ floor, and I'll hump someone on it whenever I like!"

Arthur gaped, unsure of whether to laugh or actually faint of mortification, and Matthew shrugged.

"Your floor, maybe, but you're _my _brother."

"But it's still not…hold on a second…why are you even here, anyways?"

Matthew blinked. "You just got home from a week in Europe, man, I was gonna crash here and hear about how it went…" he glanced at Arthur, smirking at the sight of his rumpled state. "If I had been expecting _this_, I wouldn't have come, trust me."

Arthur glared at him and Alfred sighed.

"Do you have anywhere else to stay tonight, bro?"

"Not exactly," said Matthew, his gaze flitting to Arthur again. "And if you guys really aren't planning on doing the dirty tonight, it's probably best that he go home anyways, because otherwise, I think it's gonna get done whether you plan it or not."

Alfred sniggered appreciatively but Arthur's mouth hung agape. The nerve of that boy! And as if this weren't enough, Matthew was again wearing some sort of bizarre ensemble that seemed to consist of cutoff shorts, an enormous woven poncho, schoolboy sneakers, fingerless gloves, and a woolen cap that looked suspiciously similar to a beret. As if this weren't enough, one lock of his hair had been strung through a handful of multicolored beads and then hung in front of his eyes. Altogether he looked completely preposterous, although certainly not very conventional, which Arthur supposed was the goal.

Arthur sighed; his libido aside, he would have enjoyed spending a little bit longer with Alfred, even just talking or sharing a nightcap, before he went home for the night. At this point, however, that was clearly out of the question, though perhaps it was for the best. Arthur hated to admit it, but Matthew was right. It was most likely that talking or sharing a nightcap would lead to sex, something which probably wasn't the best decision to make on such a new relationship, if, Arthur reminded himself, whatever this was could even be called a relationship at all. In truth he wasn't entirely sure.

He finished buttoning up his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to smooth it at least slightly before he stepped back onto the streets.

"Alright then, Alfred," he said crisply. "Thank you for a lovely time, and goodnight." Immediately he regretted the businesslike quality of his words, and glanced nervously at Alfred before stretching up on his tiptoes, hesitating an instant, and then giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Alfred absolutely beamed at him and Arthur was able to ignore Matthew's snicker.

"I had a…er, lovely time, too," Alfred said with a wink, and Arthur gave him a swat on the shoulder before turning back into the hallway to retrieve his coat. He was just opening the door to leave when Alfred appeared again, reaching for his bomber jacket.

"Hold on, Arthur," he hesitated for a moment. "I'll walk you home."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"It's quite far, you know."

"Y-yeah," Alfred was blushing. "But still…I dunno…I kind of…"

"I'm not a girl, Alfred, I can walk home myself."

"I know," Alfred smiled tentatively at him. "But I kind of…want to, you know?"

Arthur paused in the doorway, feeling a little heat rise to his neck.

"A-alright then, if you insist," he tried to compose his expression into a glare. "Just don't complain when your feet start to hurt or you've realized that since you've walked there, you have to walk back as well."

Alfred chuckled. "I'll try my hardest."

They said goodbye to Matthew and descended the stairs in silence, and though it wasn't necessarily awkward, Arthur felt compelled to bring up some sort of conversation subject, and they were quickly back to discussing Alfred's impressions of Europe. When he related a speech Francis had given him regarding the ancient quality of the continent and her people, especially when compared to North America, Arthur laughed and said that was pretty pretentious and Alfred chuckled and said maybe so, but it was also true, Francis had a point: Americans needed to define themselves before they could prosper again. At this his eyes grew sad and distant and Arthur glanced jumpily at the hand hanging at his side, suddenly wishing that he could take it and hold it as they walked, and resenting the occasional crackle of a camera lens at their back. He merely patted Alfred's shoulder in a way that could be easily construed as friendly and tried to communicate his sympathy with a smile. Fortunately, Alfred seemed to understand and returned his gaze gratefully as they neared Arthur's apartment.

They stole into the stairwell and then Arthur rather fitfully reached out and grabbed Alfred's hand, daring to wind their fingers together as they stood at the base of the steps. Alfred grinned and squeezed gently, and they went up to Arthur's apartment without letting go, not even as they lingered in front of his door for a moment.

"Well…" Arthur said eventually. "Thank you, Alfred. It wasn't necessary, but it was…rather nice to have some company."

Alfred grinned and kissed their still-joined hands. Arthur felt his face heat up and glared, ripping his fingers away.

"D-don't do such silly things, you idiot, I'm not a girl! Which leads me to wonder," he refused to meet Alfred's gaze, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve instead. "Why on earth _did _you walk me home, anyways?"

"Well," Alfred blushed faintly. "I've kinda got something to tell you, Artie, and I uh…didn't want to say it in front of anyone else, you know?"

"For the thousandth time, that's _not _my name -" His words were lost against Alfred's mouth and he rolled his eyes, putting up a brief fight before he allowed himself to be kissed, sighing slightly when they parted and glaring at Alfred's hushed laughter.

"If that's what you had to say, I've rather already got the message," he muttered, wiping his mouth.

Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and brushed his thumb across his cheek.

"I…well I…I really, really like you, Arthur," he murmured, not meeting Arthur's gaze.

"Oh really?" Arthur arched an eyebrow. "I never would have guessed."

Alfred chuckled and looked back into his eyes, and Arthur felt that feeling throbbing in his chest again.

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

Arthur pretended to consider a moment, running his fingers slowly through the downy hair at the nape of Alfred's neck.

"I suppose I'm rather fond of you, too, you stupid boy," he said after what he judged to be a good while. Alfred beamed and Arthur struggled to maintain his droll tone. "Now was all that really necessary?"

Alfred nodded. "I want to do this right."

Arthur blushed and looked at his feet. "R-right? What does that entail?"

Alfred blinked. "I mean, I know you did the whole _let's see where this goes _thing, but…I'd kind of like to…I dunno, predict a little bit into the future, if you will. I want to…I mean…I want this to be real, Arthur, I really do…I've liked you for a while now and I sort of want to establish where we stand."

Arthur tilted his head to the side. "…a while now, you say?"

Another nod. Arthur smiled tentatively.

"I…well, that's very sweet of you, Alfred," he pressed their foreheads together, and then spoke so softly that his voice emerged scarcely above a whisper, as if he were afraid of the words. "I want this to be real, too. You're…well, you're…"

"Special, amazing, awesome, the best, sexy, perfect, all-you-ever-dreamed-of -"

"…an egoistic imbecile," Arthur kissed him briefly to take the sting from his words. "But I seem to like you nevertheless."

Alfred grinned and kissed Arthur again, but when he pulled back his smile had faded.

"You know I'm leaving for London at the end of this week, right?"

"Oh," Arthur tried not to let his disappointment at being reminded show on his face. "Well, yes. I suppose I did know that," he hesitated. "It's only a weeklong trip, though," then he smiled. "Let's at least use the time we have right now to get more…acquainted, with each other, and…" he cupped Alfred's cheek in the curve of his palm, gently forcing him to meet his gaze. "…with this."

Alfred nodded and tilted his chin, shutting his eyes and meeting Arthur halfway in a kiss that was by far the gentlest of the evening, soft and maybe a little bit sad, definitely a goodbye kiss, even if the goodbye was only for the night. They both sighed and were still for a moment once they had parted, only opening their eyes when they had to unwind themselves from each other. Arthur straightened his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair even though he knew Francis would mock him relentlessly no matter what he did to attempt to alter his ruffled appearance.

"Goodnight, Alfred," he said softly.

"Night, Arthur," murmured Alfred, then grinned and waved before he turned to descend the stairs. Arthur couldn't help but to follow the back of his leather jacket until it disappeared from view, then leaned up against his door, bringing his hand to his lips despite himself.

Arthur knew he must look like he came straight out of a scene from one of those movies that he could never stand to watch, and yet he found that he couldn't bring himself to move or, really, to care at all. It seemed all his decisions had been made and all of his dilemmas had been solved in one way or another. He certainly didn't have to be unsure anymore, and it was then that he realized that he was suddenly, almost irrepressibly, very, very happy.

* * *

><p>GRAAAAH U GAIZ I HAVE BEEN WAITING SO LONG TO WRITE THAT!111!11<p>

Seriously, you have no idea. I actually had a fangirl after I typed those last few sentences. XD

…which could explain why it's so damn fluffy. Believe it or not, that's not the worst it's going to get - the next two chapters will be so saccharine your dentists will be very thanking me because the bills they will be charging you to fill your cavities will be positively enormous, and for better or for worse, that's a promise, ahaha…ha…

**French: **_Magnifique, bien entendu, mais je ne t'espère pas comprendre mon amour pour Paris…mais d'ailleurs =_ magnificent, of course, but I don't expect you to understand my love for Paris…but besides…

_-sous-titre _is the French equivalent of _cut_, if you don't remember from previous chapters.

_-nôtre cher_ means _our dear, _as opposed to the more commonly seen _mon cher_.

**A note: **If any of you have noticed, yes, when Francis says '_he is a fool, but an honest fool' _(referring to Alfred) I am blatantly quoting from _The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers _(the film, incidentally), in which Gandalf actually says '_he is a fool, but an honest fool' _(yes, effectively the exact same line) as a method of describing Pippin after he grabs up the Palantir of Sauron and nearly gives away the fact that Frodo is traipsing through Mordor with The Ring right under his nose. Or...Sauron doesn't have a nose...but the expression applies nonetheless.

Ahem.

I just felt that I should cite that.

XDD

Anyways. I hope you guys found Arthur to be very much IC throughout all of this; I really tried to keep him from melting into some pile of heartbroken goo, because that's just not in his character…anyways, tell me if I either pulled it off alright or screwed him up beyond recognition.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you: I have in fact been to Paris before, so in the last chapter I was retelling my impressions of the city. She really is rather dirty. o.O Incidentally, that vacation was not how I picked up on the little French I have – at the time, I only knew how to say _le petit oiseau est mort, _'the little bird is dead' (oddly enough, I know) a phrase which, as can be imagined, was not very helpful in getting around. Oh well. I was only like…twelve, after all.

Ahem. It would appear that I have nothing more to say. The next chapter, you can expect some MOAR surprises for Arthur, each one more sugary than the last. ^^

And review, please, because guess what, OUR STAR-CROSSED LOVERS HAVE FINALLY CROSSED!1!1!11!

…so to speak.

Until the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

We've officially passed the halfway point on this fic! Thank you all so much for all your favorites, reviews, etcetera - truly, they mean the world to me.

And, let's just say that I've been waiting to write _this _particular chapter for quite a while. :3

**In Brief: **The departure for London is fast approaching. So are some surprises - for both our heroes. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but what do they know, anyways?

**AN ANNOUNCEMENT: **So…some of my so-called friends convinced me to get a tumblr despite my deep-running fear of blogging. Therefore, if any of you feel so compelled:

worldaccordingtofangirls . tumblr. com

(Just take out the spaces, of course.)

As of right now, I reblog Hetalia shit and post selections from my travels through the internet and my considerable collection of USUK pictures, but since I am indeed going to stick around the (English-speaking) USUK fandom for as long as it lives, perhaps you all would be interested in notices about updates and little snippets of writing that aren't good enough to actually publish.

I DON'T KNOW THOUGH. I'M STILL VERY TUMBLR-INSECURE. Actually, I'm still altogether internet-insecure in general. I get nervous about leaving reviews and PMs, worrying that I'll annoy people or something…T_T

But I would be thrilled to get to know you.

*anxiety*

(I'm only halfway joking about the anxiety thing)

XD

I hope you enjoy. ^^

* * *

><p>Arthur didn't keep very good track of the days leading to Alfred's departure. He knew that they did a lot of filming, and a lot of editing, and of course a lot of rehearsing. In addition to this, he vaguely remembered what must have been a thousand costume changes and set alterations and petty workplace dramas, and remembered pondering that before, such occurrences as these would irk him to no end, but nowadays he merely watched them with raised eyebrows, and why was that exactly? Perhaps it could be explained by the number of times he and Alfred had been surprised in the elevator (several) or in the stairwell (more than they could count), or by how often they went out for drinks after work and stayed at the bar counter long into the night, just talking and laughing, before Alfred walked Arthur home (as had suddenly become their tradition) and kissed him in front of his door until they were both delirious and could barely stammer out their goodnights, or perhaps it could be explained most of all by the fleeting moments when Alfred would catch Arthur's eye from across the studio and wink or grin and Arthur would unthinkingly smile back only to turn pink and glare when Francis snorted or Elizaveta had to stifle a squeal against the back of her hand.<p>

Whichever way, the days bled into each other, and when Arthur woke up on Friday morning and registered the date, he found that he was suddenly very unwilling to get out of bed and therefore allow the day to begin, because if this morning was Friday morning then the next morning was Saturday morning, meaning tomorrow Alfred would be taking a plane to London to stay there for an entire week before he returned to Los Angeles, a prospect which didn't sit terribly well with Arthur despite his lack of choice in the matter.

Arthur sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and then forced himself to get up and put the kettle on, prodding Francis with his foot as he went. He felt stubble on his jaw and shuffled to the bathroom while he waited for the water to boil, gazing into the mirror with bleary eyes before he recalled his original purpose and picked up a razor and the shaving cream. Halfway down his left cheek, he saw that the razor belonged to Francis, and groaned, making a face and accidentally nicking himself on the cheek in doing so. Cursing, he rinsed the cut off in the sink and wadded up a tissue to stem the bleeding before he made his way back to their kitchenette, still mumbling angrily to himself, and poured the boiling water into a mug, sighing as he felt the stem waft up to soothe his raw cheeks.

Francis was slicing an orange and had one wedge balanced between his teeth when he leaned back to tell Arthur good morning; Arthur merely grunted in response and went to the fridge in search of milk only to find that they were fresh out.

"Bloody fantastic," he groaned, and drank the tea straight.

Even Francis knew better than to pester him at this point, and thus they ate and freshened up for work in silence that was only occasionally broken when Arthur cursed because he had tripped over one of Francis' suitcases, which were all lying open across their already cluttered floor, clothes and toiletries spilling onto the rug around them, serving both as hazards and unwelcome reminders of the impending departure.

As per usual, they took the bus into work, rode the elevator to the floor of the current set they were occupying, and there dispersed to attend to their various tasks. Arthur had contentedly situated himself in a chair off to the side and was busy both with flipping through the scene they were going to film that day and awarding anyone who strayed too close to him his finest venomous glare when he felt arms unexpectedly wind around his stomach from behind and was forced to turn around and smack Alfred several times with the rolled-up script before he would release him.

"We're _in public!_" he hissed when Alfred had laughingly backed away.

"We're in the studio," said Alfred through his grin, as though that somehow changed everything, and reached out to hang his arm across Arthur's shoulder. Arthur brandished the script at him warningly.

"Alfred F. Jones, don't you dare make me repeat myself," he glared, thoroughly unimpressed. "I'm having a rather awful morning and I would very much appreciate it if you'd - "

The grin melted into a smirk and suddenly Alfred was very close to him, very close indeed, though not quite touching him, more of crowding into his space so that their chests and foreheads nearly bumped together. Arthur drew in a short breath of surprise and exasperation and fearlessly met Alfred's self-assured gaze.

"I've already told you," he hissed. "My morning has been a fucking wreck and I'm not in the mood to put up with your antics."

Entirely undeterred, Alfred merely shrugged and grabbed his hand, and before he could protest or even react Arthur found himself bundled behind a plywood set and wrapped up into the smell of cigarette smoke and leather bomber jacket and the warmth of Alfred's arms; he huffed softly and, because at least they were where nobody could see them, allowed himself to press his nose into the crook of Alfred's neck and shoulder.

Alfred chuckled and Arthur got an arm free to punch him gently in the stomach; Alfred grunted softly in complaint before he leaned back and patted Arthur's cheek with the flat of his palm affectionately.

"Alfred, don't patronize me," muttered Arthur, trapping his hand in his to get him to stop. "I told you, I've had a positively horrendous -"

"I know," Alfred smiled and maneuvered their hands so that he could kiss the backs of Arthur's fingers. "Your morning sucked some serious balls. But hey," he winked. "What worth am I if I can't improve it?"

Arthur laughed shortly.

"Oh, boy, Alfred, where should I begin -"

Alfred answered him with a kiss, and Arthur smiled against his mouth, reaching up and cradling the back of his head in one hand so that he could maintain some control while he intertwined his unoccupied fingers with Alfred's and let their arms fall to their sides. For a long moment he thought of nothing but the lovely feel of Alfred, then he abruptly and unpleasantly remembered that he would soon be deprived of that feeling for an entire week, and broke the kiss with a gasp, lowering his chin so that his forehead was level with Alfred's nose.

He soon felt Alfred hook his finger beneath his chin, trying to tilt his face upwards. Arthur resisted and eventually Alfred's palm curved upwards to rest on the swell of his cheek.

"Something wrong?"

Arthur shook his head, running his hand absently across the nape of Alfred's neck.

"It's nothing," he bit down on his lower lip. "Just…a really, really terrible morning."

Alfred was silent for a moment, presumably considering.

"So even my awesomeness didn't make it better?"

It was now Arthur's turn to pat Alfred's cheek as if he were a child, though he still didn't meet his gaze.

"I'll admit you were somewhat of a help," he murmured, and kissed him briefly before attempting to free himself from his arms. Alfred didn't budge; Arthur glared at him.

"Stop being a romantic fool; it's time we got to work."

Now Alfred was grinning again. Arthur rolled his eyes and settled in for an extensive argument.

"I think I know why your morning sucks." Alfred said this as though he had gained some grand victory in doing so, and Arthur quirked an eyebrow, still fighting against Alfred's elbows, which were now clamped at his sides in veritable vice grips.

"Oh really?" he hissed in frustration as he pushed ineffectually against Alfred's forearm. "Do tell."

Alfred's eyes glinted and suddenly Arthur was all wrapped up in him again, the flats of his palms tight and strong against his back, effectively trapping him in the embrace.

"You're going to miss me," Alfred whispered in his ear, and even at such a subdued tone Arthur could hear that insipid grin saturate his voice.

"I'm going to - what are you…" Arthur paused, pretending to consider something. "Oh!" he cried eventually, smirking up at Alfred. "That's right! Tomorrow, you, London. Funny, I had nearly forgotten."

Alfred chuckled, merely pressing him closer. "That's a cute act, Artie."

Arthur dug his hands into the back of his jacket solely for the sake of gaining more balance in this whole unfortunate situation.

"That's not my name," he muttered. "Now, I positively _demand_ that you release me."

"But I haven't gotten to the best part yet!"

"Oh dear, this whole ordeal comes in _parts?_"

"You betcha," said Alfred with a snigger; by then he had transitioned to tracing circles on Arthur's back with his palms. "Wanna hear it?"

"Have I any choice in the matter?"

"Nope."

"Then, I think, after many long, hard hours spent on this very serious decision…I'm going to opt to remain in ignorance." Arthur blinked up at Alfred primly. "Now let me go."

Alfred merely kissed his forehead.

"We're going out tonight."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "We always go out."

"But tonight is gonna be different."

"How so?"

"Well geez, man, you don't have to sound so incredulous about it."

"_Alfred._"

"Right. Sorry. You _did _sound kind of incredulous, though. I mean, come on, give me some credit. But anyways," Alfred grinned at him. "It's gonna be different because it's gonna be special."

"Special," Arthur repeated dubiously. "What's going to be so special about it?"

Alfred's lips were back at Arthur's forehead; he spoke against the vein thrumming in his temple.

"Just special. That's all I'm gonna say."

"Alfred - " For an instant Alfred's lips were against his, then they heard Elizaveta shouting his name and he was gone, mouth, hands, limbs, eyes, hair, everything, scampering out from behind the set with a facetious little salute, hand titled downwards, obviously designated for Arthur. Smiling wryly, Arthur lifted his hand to his forehead and saluted him back, British-style with his palm facing up, even though Alfred likely couldn't see him do so from behind the plywood wall.

Special, eh? Arthur made sure to give the situation a few minutes to look less suspicious and to fix his hair and tie before he stepped out from behind the set.

If Alfred wasn't careful he would leave Arthur glad to be able to drop him in London's hands for a while.

* * *

><p>Arthur was surprised that he neither encountered Alfred in the hallways, nor on the stairs, nor in the elevator; what was stranger still was that he was neither assaulted nor conspicuously whispered at whilst he attempted to traverse the lobby of World Series Entertainment. In fact, he stepped outside into the heady late-summer heat and distractedly gave his goodbyes to Francis with no trouble at all. Arthur stood on the curb for a moment, thoroughly confused and almost forlorn, before he heard an almost familiarly obnoxious honk from behind him and turned to see Alfred leaning out from the window of a gleaming red Mustang, the engine sputtering softly behind him as he pulled the car to a stop directly in front of Arthur.<p>

"Hop in, sweetheart!" he grinned as per usual, his hair shifting slightly in the thick breeze that crept along the Los Angeles streets. Arthur blinked and remembered to close his gaping mouth.

"W-what…"

"Isn't she sexy?" Alfred patted the side of the car affectionately, leaving a faint handprint on the otherwise flawless red exterior. His grin deepened. "Though not as sexy as you, of course, Artie."

"S-sod off," choked Arthur. "We're in public, and even if that weren't the case…well, that would still be a positively revolting line." He raised a dubious eyebrow at the car. "Don't tell me that this is what's so special about tonight."

Alfred chuckled. "Nope, I bought this baby a couple days ago. My one grand indulgence, and she's a beauty, that's for sure," he ran his fingers along the edge of the windowsill reverently, then glanced up and winked. "Come on, Artie, hop in."

Arthur sighed, glanced down at Alfred, blinked into his unreasonably handsome smile, his gleaming gaze, his expression, flushed with childish excitement, and grudgingly wrenched open the door, contradicting this action by slipping daintily into the leather passenger seat and crossing one leg over another as he primly folded his fingers together on his lap.

Alfred snorted as he pressed the gas pedal. "You're such a fruit, man."

Arthur shot him a long look, wincing as they nearly ran a red light and resisting the temptation to snatch the wheel from Alfred's hands.

"So says the boyfriend of the so-called fruit."

They were silent for a moment while Arthur realized what he had just accidentally said. He glanced nervously at Alfred to find him glancing right back, a tentative smile toying with the bow of his lips and the faintest blush visible at the tips of his ears and across his nose. Arthur swallowed and mustered a glare.

"What, no devastating comeback today?"

Alfred blinked, took one hand off the steering wheel, reached across the seat, fought with Arthur's intertwined fingers for a moment, then finally succeeded in capturing one of his hands and wrapping it in his own, after which he turned his attention back to the road without a word. With a little effort, Arthur managed to maneuver his hand into a position where he could tentatively wind their fingers together. He felt Alfred squeeze gently and he focused determinedly on his shoes.

"I suppose it is a rather nice car," he muttered to his lap. Alfred smirked.

"Not as nice as you, Artie."

"Must you ruin every kind gesture I try to make you?" replied Arthur dryly, but a smile touched his lips all the same. Alfred feigned a frown.

"I gotta say, man, this lady," he patted the steering wheel, indicating that by _lady _he was referring to car_. _"…has started to give you some serious competition, seeing as how she can't really complain at me and stuff, after all."

Arthur chuckled. "But Alfred, you seem to forget," he slyly unwound their fingers and ran his palm up Alfred's arm, curling his hand around his neck. "She also can't do this." They were pulling to a stop in front of a red light and so Arthur leaned over the seat and pressed his mouth only slightly to Alfred's, scarcely allowing their lips to touch, more of breathing on him than kissing him at all, really. Alfred, never one for subtleties, pressed forwards eagerly, foolishly lifting both his hands from the wheel in an attempt to hold him in place, and Arthur immediately snapped backwards, smirking at the dejected expression he was met with as the light turned and Alfred had to return his hands to the business of driving.

"You play dirty," he muttered, cutting around a corner with a rather vindictive speed.

"Mm, indeed. I don't know how you survive, you poor, poor dear," murmured Arthur absently. "Perhaps, and I do mean _perhaps_, I will reward you if you tell me where on earth you are taking me," he craned his neck to get a better view of the streets and buildings surrounding them. "I daresay I don't recognize anything about this place."

Alfred tilted his head to the side, his lower lip jutting out slightly in an absolutely adorable fashion, though Arthur would die before he admitted to such a thing. "Aw," he was whining. "I had really hoped you would remember!"

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Remember what, pray tell?"

"We were around here on the night of our day off, right? We went to that Italian place and then to that movie that scared the shit out of me. You crashed…er, were forced to crash…at my apartment afterwards. Dude, I can't believe you don't remember!"

"No, Alfred," Arthur squinted out the window. "That can't be right; we're at least six or seven blocks from there. In fact, I'm almost positive that I've never been here."

Alfred shrugged. "But you were _near _here."

Arthur sighed heavily.

"You're impossible."

"You love it."

"At least…" Arthur paused. "Well, it's certainly never boring."

Alfred laughed and thumped him on the shoulder before returning his attention to the road. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"If you're quite done stalling, I might like to know to where I'm being sequestered off, exactly. That is, unless you don't want your reward."

Alfred seemed to debate with himself for a moment.

"We're going to the store," he finally said.

"The store? What kind of store?" When he received no answer: "Alright then, can you tell me why?"

To his credit, Alfred looked genuinely torn, but eventually shook his head decidedly, biting down on his lower lip. Arthur huffed exasperatedly, crossed his arms over his chess, and looked fixedly out the window.

"Sorry, Artie!" Alfred cried, sounding almost distraught. "But it's gotta be a surprise!"

Arthur was silent; because he made sure keep his face turned away, Alfred couldn't see the fond smile playing across his mouth.

"Arthur…"

Still he said nothing, though now he was experiencing some difficulties with suppressing his laughter.

"So does this mean I don't get my reward?"

Arthur finally broke and snorted, turning and patting Alfred affectionately on the cheek before he leaned up and pressed his lips to his chin, though he frowned as soon as he had pulled back.

"You haven't really told me anything," he told him tartly. "So that is all. You should consider yourself lucky."

Alfred winked at him.

"I always do."

* * *

><p>Apparently, Alfred had intended that his use of the phrase <em>the store <em>be interpreted as it usually was in casual conversation; thirty minutes after fighting their way through a city parking lot that was as overcrowded as it was overpriced, adventuring through the aisles of the nearest outlet of a supermarket chain, purchasing various food items, the purpose of which Alfred refused to explain, and repeating the journey back to the parking lot, Arthur found himself once again sitting in the passenger side of Alfred's car, though by then dusk had begun to fall despite the long summer days and the lights of the city had gradually begun to twinkle to life behind them.

"Alfred," asked Arthur in a dangerously low voice as they paid far too much for their parking. "Don't tell me that the sole purpose of driving out here was to visit the nearest _supermarket _in order to purchase some apparently very specific _groceries._"

Alfred nodded, his tongue jammed between his teeth in concentration as he tried to navigate his way back onto the city street. Arthur arched a brow.

"Dare I ask why?"

"I'm telling you, Artie," Alfred slammed on the brakes and flipped the bird to the driver in front of them, who had somewhat wisely slowed to a stop before a yellow light that they could perhaps have made if they had been allowed to attack the intersection at an especially dangerous speed. "You'll see."

When Arthur sighed doubtfully, Alfred nudged their shoulders together gently.

"It's gonna be special, I promise."

"So you have," murmured Arthur. "Many times."

"Just trust me!"

"Seems I've hardly got a choice."

Alfred chuckled. "That's the spirit, Artie."

Arthur considered correcting him for the umpteenth time before he decided that to do so would be too much effort, seeing as it would come to no avail anyways, and instead merely rested his cheek on the back of his hand, focusing on watching the streets of Los Angeles blur together across their window, one enormous smudge of concrete and asphalt and dirt and the tainted glow of streetlamps and neon. Gradually, however, as the evening deepened into night and they drove further, the light began to fade, soften, and Arthur realized that they were pulling towards the already near-deserted area of the city, where the only light was produced by the flickering streetlamps and the occasional glow of apartment windows, sliding through the windows of the car in large square panels of yellow, slipping over the frames of Alfred's glasses and casting strange shadows across their faces.

Arthur lifted his face from his hand when he recognized the street they were coasting down as the once-grand boulevard of movie sets and studios; craning his neck out the window to look behind them he could see the faint glow from where the movie business was still being somewhat-successfully run, and when he turned his gaze ahead of them, the street swallowed by darkness except for the periodic glows of the streetlamps. He blinked upwards and realized he could see the moon and stars more crisply, that the fabric of the night seemed blacker, and smiled faintly despite his confusion.

When Alfred turned the car to pull up a familiar byway, Arthur began to develop an inkling regarding where they might be headed, though he still couldn't hope to understand why. Sure enough, however, Alfred eased to a stop in the crumbling parking lot of Hollywood's oldest and finest movie studio, turning the ignition and getting out of the car to survey her remains briefly, a soft smile on his face, before he circled the car and opened the passenger side for Arthur.

"Alfred," began Arthur immediately upon emerging from the car. "What on earth is the meaning of this?"

Alfred suddenly bent down and kissed him, leaning back with a smile.

"Wait just a little longer," he murmured, and shut Arthur's door behind him before walking to the back of the car and opening the trunk, pulling out the bags of groceries. Arthur joined him, gazed into the trunk, and raised an eyebrow when his eyes fell on the tangled pile of electrical cords and blankets inside.

"Are you out of your mind?" he wondered aloud, though mainly for his own benefit, as he lifted a thick flannel quilt from the trunk and turned the fabric in his hands. He glanced back into the trunk and grew yet more confused when he saw that by removing the blanket he had revealed some sort of electronic device and a handful of what looked like DVD cases. Alfred made a clucking noise and stood up from sorting through the groceries to shoo Arthur away from the trunk.

"Just give me a minute and go look at the view or something!" was his advice, and Arthur, too perplexed to put up an argument or protest against being ordered around so blatantly, did as he was told and walked aimlessly towards the lip of the hill, gazing down at Los Angeles to find that she winked back up at him, a tapestry of light and sound laid like a jewel against the velvet bustier of night.

Perhaps she was tired, perhaps she was fading, but nevertheless at that moment she was a lovely thing to behold, a gleaming golden structure tucked away in the darker fabric of the California hills, alive with the undertone of voices and laughter and the wailing of the highways and the clatter of high heels against sidewalks. The night was clear and warm and a slight breeze rustled the trees around Arthur while the moonlight, a cleaner contrast to the mechanical glow of the city, fell amply across the abandoned studio, bending her fallen structure into strange but not necessarily unpleasant shapes and lightening the darkness a shade. This, combined with the intrusion of the city lights, seemed to catch Arthur and Alfred in a world of a grey, indistinct form, soft about the edges but sharply defined in certain places where the moonlight fell thin and silver like a needle.

Arthur was snapped from his reverie as Alfred wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his lips into his hair.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" He spoke as softly as the breeze.

"From here, at least," murmured Arthur honestly, his irritation forgotten as he allowed himself to lean back into Alfred, who chuckled quietly and kissed the top of his head.

"I'll tell you why tonight's gonna be special now, if you like," he said eventually.

Arthur shrugged.

"That's alright. I can go without knowing," he teased, managing to elbow Alfred gently in the ribs. He received another chuckle for his trouble and was suddenly turned around to face Alfred while arms again wound securely around his waist. Over Alfred's shoulder he could see the old studio, and realized eventually that the blankets from the trunk had been spread out across her overgrown lawn and that the electronic device, now recognizable as a projector, was casting a long panel of pale light across the surface of the front of the studio, whirring softly in the still air.

"I told you," Alfred was whispering in his ear, "That you haven't seen this city until you've seen it through my eyes." Arthur found himself being led towards the blankets that were spread out on the grass, then Alfred went to the projector and began to fiddle with it, gesturing for Arthur to sit down as he did so. Rendered mute by surprise, Arthur obeyed, testing the ground beneath him and finding it to be surprisingly supple, even comfortable with the addition of the soft flannel quilts. Eventually Alfred joined him, a small remote clutched in one hand as the other reached up to brush a thumb across Arthur's cheek.

"But Alfred…" murmured Arthur, thoroughly confused. "You've already -"

"Nope, Arthur," Alfred grinned and kissed him briefly. "I'm not quite done showing you yet," he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before he began again. "You've seen the city like she is now, through my eyes, but…" his smile softened. "You haven't seen her like she used to be, and I wanted you to understand, you know, why I loved her so much when I was a kid…why…why the spirit will never exactly die out of her all the way…so I decided to show you."

Arthur smiled incredulously. "And how, exactly, are you going to do that?" he glanced around them. "I don't see a time machine anywhere, do you?"

Alfred snorted. "Christ, I've said it before and I'll say it again - you're such a cynic, Artie. I mean, please, I don't need a time machine to bring back the spirit of cinema. After all," his eyes sparkled in the darkness. "It's not gone yet, not really. Therefore…all it takes to bring it back is the push…" his thumb came down on the remote. "…of a button."

The previously still image projected on the front of the studio suddenly crackled to life, and Arthur jumped in surprise as he recognized the opening sequence of _Vertigo_ abruptly appear, framed against the ivy that arched its way up the crumbled façade of the building. There was sound, too, he realized, and quickly pinpointed the source as the little speaker nestled into the ground not far from the projector. He turned to Alfred to question him but found that he was back to rifling through the grocery bags, and when he finally emerged with his arms filled with cases of cheap supermarket wine, processed popcorn, and several enormous sacks of assorted candies, all Arthur could manage to ask him was how he had kept _those _purchases a secret from him.

"The other groceries served as cover-ups," Alfred said with a grin that glinted in the dark. "Besides, I needed all that bread and milk for home anyways."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The milk will have spoiled by the time you're back from London, you fool."

Alfred made a face. "Let's not think about that, okay?" And then he was back beside Arthur on the blanket, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him flush against his side while the other arm dealt with freeing their prepackaged plastic wine glasses from their cardboard cages. He eventually handed one to Arthur and watched amusedly as he gingerly stripped off the foil seal with a little sigh of distaste.

"Besides the obvious offense of grocery store wine," Alfred winked as he gently tapped the rims of their glasses together. "What do you think?"

Arthur sighed, taking a sip from his glass and wrinkling his nose at the taste as he leaned back against Alfred's arm, drawing his knees to his chest and focusing on the movie projected onto the face of the old studio. Scarcely ten years ago, the establishment had been churning out films of its own at a breathtaking rate, broadcasting little pieces, tiny golden shining nuggets, of America to every corner of the world, and at one point the place had probably glowed more brightly in the dark than any building that could be seen below in the massive framework of Los Angeles. Alfred had neither restored this glory nor conjured some cheap imitation of it, no, rather he had made a tribute to what was now almost entirely lost, and in doing so had allowed Arthur to draw in his mind a sketch of the beauty and culture that must have bathed this place back before America took her fateful stumble, before the gold had been tarnished, before those various corners of the world had gradually begun to realize that they no longer appreciated the presence of such a second-rate metal in their living rooms and television channels. Yes, Alfred had paid his homage simply, honestly, genuinely, very much in accordance with his general manner of doing things, and Arthur found it to be very beautiful and very, very special indeed.

"It's…" he faltered. "It's…well, it's lovely, Alfred. I think…I think I can maybe see a little better now," he stared down into his wine glass, twirling the plastic stem between his fingers. "Thank you…for trying to help a cynic as hopeless as I, that is."

Even though he didn't look up at him, Arthur knew Alfred was grinning from the way he spoke.

"Shucks, Artie. I'm glad you like it," his voice fell a decibel and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat. "Do I get a reward for my trouble?"

Still refusing to meet his eyes, Arthur sighed and gently set his glass on the grass beside the blanket before he turned and dug his fingers into Alfred's collar, pulling him down slightly so that when he craned his neck a little he could reach his mouth without trouble. He parted his lips and tasted the wine on Alfred's breath, sighing into the kiss and reaching up to wrap an arm around Alfred's neck as arms tangled around his waist and Alfred leaned into him, the force of his weight causing him to fall onto his back on the blanket with Alfred lying halfway across his chest, elevated slightly on one elbow, having not broken the kiss all the while. When they finally pulled away from each other they were both breathing perhaps a little harder than either would like to admit, and Arthur could see the high color in Alfred's cheeks even in the darkness as he ran a hand slowly through his ruffled hair, brushing the locks that had fallen across his face back into place and straightening his lopsided glasses so that he could appreciate the smile he was being awarded, the twinkle behind the ever-smudged lenses.

"Is that enough for you?" he breathed eventually, cradling Alfred's cheek in his palm. Alfred's smile deepened and he leaned into Arthur's touch as he bent down so that their noses brushed together.

"I'm afraid I'll never be quite satisfied," he said lowly as he pressed their mouths together again, hot and open and tasting of that dreadful wine.

"Mm," Arthur pulled away with a chuckle, tilting his chin upwards so that Alfred was nestled at his throat; he could feel his breath come and go against his jugular. "Damn Americans. So greedy."

"We can't help it," murmured Alfred, his voice vibrating against Arthur's throat as he kissed his Adam's apple slowly, gently, and as his hand reached up to tangle in his hair. "Not when there's something we want." He nipped gently at the skin and though Arthur didn't quite moan he did sigh rather deeply and decided to relent and allow Alfred another real kiss; this one lasted for quite some time and when it's end finally arrived Alfred was more of entirely on top of Arthur and their legs were somewhat entwined and it was a good thing they both knew the movie well already because they really weren't following the plot.

Alfred balanced himself on his elbows and grinned down at Arthur, who tentatively attempted to return such a lovely smile as he ran his thumb across Alfred's face, along the line of his jaw and over the swell of his cheeks, tracing the indentations of his cheekbones and eventually sinking back into his hair, rhythmically stroking it from his forehead.

"You look like a fool," he murmured eventually, because it was true; Alfred was positively mooning at him and though in truth it made Arthur's heart flutter he didn't allow this to bias his previous statement.

"A fool for you, maybe," whispered Alfred.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Psh, I see right through you, Artie, and you love it."

Arthur shrugged, reminded Alfred yet again that he didn't like to be called that, and leaned upwards, wrapping both arms around Alfred's neck and kissing him thoroughly, though he eventually shifted to trail his lips across his face and to his ear, down his cheekbones to rest at the soft patch of skin at the conjunction between his neck and the line of his jaw, where he tried to control his breathing and smelled what he had grown to recognize as distinctly Alfred, cigarette smoke and inoffensive musk and on that particular night a touch of chocolate, perhaps.

After a little longer of this new embrace, Alfred sat up, pulling Arthur with him, before he rolled them over, rearranging their arms and legs so that they could comfortably watch the movie while Arthur was still cradled in the crook of his arm with one hand on his chest and their legs still somewhat intertwined, though not to the same distracting extent as before. Arthur allowed himself to be repositioned, too warm and comfortable and happy to be near Alfred to really protest against it, and finished the dregs of the terrible wine as Alfred cracked open the popcorn and candy, which together were evidently designed to be the meal of the evening. Still Arthur didn't complain; by then he had remembered that this would be his last night with Alfred for an entire week and suddenly that seemed like not just an unpleasantly, but an excruciatingly, long time to go without being surrounded by such warmth, however obnoxious it may be, and the smell of leather bomber jacket.

"Man, Arthur," sighed Alfred eventually. "I wish I could take you with me. To London, that is."

Arthur felt his face warm in spite of himself; Alfred seemed to have tuned into his thoughts.

"I…er…well," he stammered. "I wish that too. A week…" he sighed. "A week is starting to seem terribly long."

Alfred groaned softly. "Tell me about it," he pressed Arthur closer as if he could secure his place there with the gesture. "I'm going to miss you like crazy."

Arthur was silent for a moment, biting his lower lip and fighting against that swelling sensation that pressed against his ribs in a way that wasn't quite uncomfortable.

"I…" he faltered. "I'll…well, it's possible that…maybe, I mean…I might just…"

Alfred snickered. "Miss me too?"

"That's the phrase," said Arthur weakly. "Sorry."

Alfred laughed again and turned his nose into his hair.

"S'all right, Arthur," he murmured. "If you can't always say what you're thinking, you don't have to worry. I'll help you translate."

Oh, what a lovely thing to say. It belonged in a script, really, one that Arthur would immediately judge as sappy and unrealistic. How could he possibly respond to such a line?

"D-don't say such silly things," he managed, turning his face to the side to hide his embarrassment.

"But it's true," said Alfred. "Which totally reminds me - do you have a word for me yet? To describe the message in the script of _Keep Dreaming, _that is."

Arthur blinked incredulously. "You're asking me about something like that at a time like this?"

"You know it, sweetheart."

Arthur rolled his eyes but, as always, gave Alfred's question a moment of consideration, burying his nose in his shoulder as he thought.

"Lonely," he finally said, without lifting his face from Alfred's shirt. "The world as my script sees it is lonely."

"Bullshit," said Alfred immediately. "To be alive is to be lonely at one point or another. That can't be the theme of your script; it's too easy and has absolutely nothing to do with America and even less to do with the American dream. I mean, come on, even when we were isolationist we were never lonely, and unless you're making some point about the irony there is in that immigrants who pursued the American dream ended up lonely in a foreign country, it makes no sense. And besides," he lifted a finger towards the sky to illustrate his point. "Immigrants weren't that lonely. They all clumped together and stuff. And otherwise the American dream totally preached togetherness. So there."

"But what if the togetherness the American dream preached was never achieved?"

Alfred shrugged. "So what? People are lonely everywhere, not just in America. That has nothing to do with anything. You totally made up that crap answer on the spot."

"Well of course, Alfred. I hardly have much spare thinking time to devote to your ridiculous antics, you know."

"Mm." And suddenly Alfred had drawn in close again, his arms around Arthur's waist and their lips nearly touching. "Yet you seem to make time for this."

"But you see, Alfred," smirked Arthur, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck so that he could maintain a little control over the situation. "In this particular circumstance, there's something for me to gain, too."

"Oh?" Alfred was smirking now, too. "And what's that?"

Arthur leaned up and showed him, and the movie had long come to an end before either of them noticed that the projector had fallen still, the image on the face of the studio had faded, and they were enveloped together in the semidarkness, fractured by the ample moon and the lights of the city, of Alfred's resurrected Hollywood summer.

* * *

><p>This time when they fell to the floor of Alfred's apartment there was no Matthew to cough and interrupt them and end it, and their shoes and jackets and ties were lost somewhere in the hallway far behind them, and Arthur's oxford was again hanging from his shoulders by a thread while his hands were jammed up beneath Alfred's t-shirt and running up and down his sides until they eventually managed to work the fabric up over his head with a considerable combined effort; this finally achieved, Arthur leaned back down over Alfred and caught his face in his hands, kissing him mercilessly until he drew his chin back to gasp in air, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright.<p>

"Arthur," he panted, hands reaching up to wind into his hair. "Are we going to…I mean, tonight…"

Arthur ran his thumb across his cheek tenderly. "Do you want to?"

Alfred actually laughed.

"Christ, Arthur, _yes."_

Arthur smirked and craned his neck so that their lips scarcely brushed together, shifting his hands from Alfred's cheeks to run down his neck and across his shoulders and collarbone, not missing the little shiver that went through his body.

"Let's get to it, then, eh?" he whispered, and pressed his open mouth to Alfred's relentlessly as he straddled his torso, trying to gain better leverage, and balanced his hands on his shoulders. Alfred was helpless against the kiss, though his fingers still fumbled with the last of Arthur's buttons and eventually Arthur felt his shirt fall away from his body and searing palms run up his hips, his stomach, the small muscles in his chest before traveling behind and softly tracing up the line of his spine.

It was a long moment before Arthur cared to recall their current situation - straddling each other in Alfred's living room in the middle of a floor that must be rather uncomfortable for Alfred to be spread out on, surrounded by teetering piles of movies that could easily be toppled by a stray foot or arm - and grumblingly admitted to himself that it would probably be best if they stopped what they were doing for the few seconds it would take to transition to Alfred's bedroom and presumably his much softer and cleaner and more comfortable bed.

"Alfred," he managed by tilting his chin to the side and letting Alfred explore up and down his neck. "N-not here, I don't think…it's not…"

"Not a very good idea?" breathed Alfred against his throat, sitting up suddenly and pulling a somewhat-disgruntled Arthur onto his lap. He glanced around them, chest heaving. "Yeah, I can agree with that. This floor kind of hurts my ass."

Arthur wanted to laugh and tell him that, depending on the angle he ended up with, what they were about to do could hurt a lot more than some silly floor, but refrained and instead tried to get up from his lap without success - Alfred immediately trapped him in his arms, pressing his mouth to his forehead.

"Alfred," Arthur sighed testily. "If we're going to move, I have to get up."

"But I don't wanna!" whined Alfred, trying to kiss him again. Arthur lifted his chin to avoid him and instead felt lips press against his jugular, open-mouthed, hot and wet.

"Argh, Alfred, I'm rather impatient and don't have time for your games!"

"Impatient, you say?" Alfred lifted his head to look at him, blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Shut it, you, and I can see _this,_" he somehow managed to press his knee into Alfred's crotch despite his unfavorable position, causing him to pitch forwards slightly with a low hiss. "So don't try to pretend you're not the same. Now let's _go_, if you please."

Arthur was allowed to unwind himself and stand up, though when he offered Alfred a hand he was immediately dragged into a long kiss that would have resulted in their falling back to the floor and starting all over again had Arthur not turned his face away at the last moment and playfully pushed Alfred from him before turning and grabbing his hand to lead him towards his own bedroom. Only when he had closed the door behind them did he step back, running his gaze over Alfred as he turned from the doorknob, smiling almost tentatively.

Arthur would never tell him so, but he was a lovely sight to behold, hair mussed across his forehead and sticking up in places with sweat, eyes sparkling behind very smudged and very lopsided glasses, standing there almost sheepishly in his trousers and socks and not a stitch more, the gentle curve of his broad shoulders slipping suddenly into the lean muscles of his chest and stomach, then into the narrow line of his waist and the soft pockets of his lingering baby fat, the skin flushed and bare except for the downy golden line of hair that extended down from his navel to disappear below his waistband. Arthur felt his breath catch; he was no sap and no tittering schoolgirl, but Alfred was very, very handsome, especially when he was grinning almost shyly at him all of a sudden and was flushed with exertion and arousal and they were about to fall into his bed together. In this one situation, even Arthur's formidable pride buckled, forcing him to admit all of this to himself, though of course he expressed none of these thoughts to Alfred, merely took a step forward, wrapped his arms around his neck, and kissed that adorable grin from his mouth, struggling to lead the dance over to the edge of the bed as Alfred's arms wound tightly around his waist and one of his hands wandered to his behind, testing the swell gently and making Arthur want to wrap his legs around his waist then and there and probably forego all chances of reaching their destination in doing so.

He resisted and they eventually fell onto the bed, Arthur on top of Alfred (at least for the moment) as they kissed over and over again while Arthur's nimble fingers traveled downwards to fumble with the buttons of Alfred's trousers. He had finally gotten them undone and was going for the zipper when Alfred abruptly broke their kiss and leaned back, panting and flushed, to catch Arthur's hand in his own, a glimmer of what looked like hesitation in his eyes. Arthur released his zipper immediately and sat back, heart pounding, suddenly terrified. Had he gone too fast? Alfred had said that he wanted this, right? Had he changed his mind? Arthur certainly hoped not.

"Alfred, is something wrong?" he reached for his hand and took it. "I mean, did I -"

Alfred shook his head vigorously. "No, no, Arthur, it's not you, I promise." He paused, biting at his lower lip. "I just…I feel like I should tell you something, first."

Arthur swallowed, unsure as to whether he was relieved to hear this, and squeezed Alfred's hand.

"Of course, love. Anything."

Alfred fidgeted for a moment, lifted and hand to the back of his neck sheepishly, sighed, and lowered his eyes to the sheets.

"I'm kind of…er…new at this," he faltered. "Completely new, actually."

Arthur blinked; this was rather unexpected. Alfred had never shown the faintest sign of hesitation before, but rather had been so sure of himself that Arthur would never have dreamt of such a thing.

"With a man?" he asked quietly. Alfred swallowed audibly.

"With anyone, actually," he murmured after a moment. "You see…it hasn't been very long since I figured myself out, and before then I never did it with girls because I couldn't…well, y'know," he gestured downwards sheepishly. "I've dated a few guys before but…never like this, never like it is with you. It wasn't that I didn't think about having sex with them or anything, we just never really got around to it. But…with you…well…it's different. A lot different. And I want to, don't get me wrong. More than anything. I just…" he trailed off for a moment. "I just need to make sure that you're okay with this. With…me."

Arthur sighed and pressed Alfred's hand.

"Oh, you silly boy," he murmured almost incredulously. "You wonderful, wonderful fool. How on earth could you imagine that I wouldn't be okay with this, with you? Jesus, it's not even a question of how _I_ feel," he paused, squeezing Alfred's fingers more tightly and inching towards him across the sheets to cup his cheek in his other palm, forcing him to meet his gaze – it was so uncharacteristic of Alfred to turn away, and Arthur found that he couldn't stand it.

"You're the one giving this to me," he told him softly. "I should be the one asking you if you're alright, not the other way around, and…and even though I want this too…" his voice fell quieter still. "…more than anything…you mustn't do anything you're uncomfortable with. I have no expectations of you, Alfred, I just…" he was nearly whispering now. "I just want to be with you."

Alfred blinked, leaned forwards, and kissed Arthur softly on the mouth, insisting until he responded, hesitantly but hopefully, and when he pulled back, his eyes were twinkling again.

"I'm not uncomfortable, Arthur, not with you, not when I _want _this so badly," he whispered. "And besides, it was going to have to go sometime, and I can think of no one I'd rather…leave it behind with, so to speak." He smiled cautiously and Arthur returned the expression. "Still, I…uh…" he blushed faintly. "I'm not entirely sure what to do, so I think it might be better if you were to…"

Arthur nodded. "I understand. Although…" he hesitated. "I should warn you, Alfred. In a way, I'm new at this as well. You see," he looked down into his lap. "I've fucked a million times before, but…I've never made love, so to speak. I mean, sex for me has always been more of a means of release, not a…not a…an expression of…_feelings, _for lack of better word, but this…well, as you've said, this is different. So…you must forgive me if I don't quite…live up to what expectations you may have. But…you're, well, you're different, Alfred, and I'll try my best to make it good for you."

Alfred kissed his hand gently. "You're ridiculous, Arthur, you know that? You don't have any expectations of me, so of course I'm not going to have any of you. I just want to be with you, too," and then he smirked. "It doesn't have to come straight out of a Hollywood romance."

Arthur laughed appreciatively and leaned forwards on the palms of his hands, reaching for the button of Alfred's trousers again.

"I didn't bring any candles or rose petals anyways," he murmured, pressing his mouth against the shell of Alfred's ear. "So I suppose we'll start here."

Alfred flushed and nodded before they kissed and he allowed Arthur to slip his hands beneath his waistband, lifting his legs obediently so that he could get the trousers off and throw them to the floor without breaking the kiss. Alfred tried to say something against his mouth and leaned forwards, reaching for Arthur's zipper and clumsily undoing it so that his slacks fell to his knees; Arthur pulled away for a moment to kick them to the floor and felt Alfred wrap around him from behind, his lips drawing feathery trails across his neck and shoulders while his palm inched up his bare thigh. Arthur sighed and swatted him away before he turned and straddled his hips, pushing him gently back against the pillows.

"B-boxers next, right?" stammered Alfred as he took in their new position. Arthur nodded bemusedly.

"That would probably make things easier," he chuckled, and hooked his thumbs beneath Alfred's waistband, thoroughly enjoying his audible intake of breath, before he remembered something rather important and sat up on his stomach again, ignoring his little cry of complaint. "Alfred…before we get much farther…do you have, er…well, you have you got something to help us along, so to speak? I mean…well, you know what I mean."

Alfred nodded, the color in his cheeks darkening.

"I…er, well, I was kind of hoping this would happen, so…" he faltered. "In the bedside table."

Arthur nodded briskly. "Alright then, let's get on with it." A moment later he realized how businesslike he sounded and reached down to pat Alfred's cheek tenderly. "You're doing fine, love," he whispered, silencing whatever reply Alfred might have had against his mouth. Alfred pulled him down flush to his chest, palms running up and down his back as they kissed and their legs tangled together beneath the sheets. Eventually Arthur leaned back and shifted so that he was perched between Alfred's legs, deftly shedding his boxers and reaching for Alfred's waistband again, encouraging him to lift his hips so that he could get them off as quickly as possible and toss them to the floor with the rest of their clothing. They were both entirely naked now and Alfred blushed darker; Arthur had to resist a chuckle as he leaned forwards again to kiss him briefly before he went to the bedside table and found what they needed. Never would he have guessed that obnoxious, loud, swaggering Alfred F. Jones would be rendered so bashful and clueless without his clothing, and to be honest it was entirely endearing, everything, from his flushed cheeks to his panting breath to the uncertainty with which he spoke, soft and tentative as if he were afraid that his words would be caught between the sheets and linger there forever. He moved with sudden care, the passage of his hands over Arthur's body cautious, almost lost, exploring him warily, shyly.

"Are you ready, love?" whispered Arthur, running his fingers gently up and down his cheek, pressing his mouth against the curve of his neck over and over again between the words.

Alfred nodded, smiling reassuringly even though when Arthur began to prepare him he gasped and his fingers tangled almost painfully in Arthur's hair, his eyes widening and his mouth falling slack in surprise. Arthur stilled, clucked his tongue comfortingly, and whispered softly in his ear that it wouldn't hurt so much forever, though he didn't move for a long moment before he even began to consider starting again, and waited until Alfred loosed his hold on his hair considerably before he added a second finger. Had Alfred not told Arthur he was a virgin before, by then it would have been obvious; he squirmed and bucked almost confusedly beneath him, and it took a considerable while before Arthur deemed that he could possibly be ready and withdrew his fingers, kissing Alfred in what he hoped was a soothing fashion as he briskly prepared himself.

"Alfred, love," he breathed into his ear as he positioned himself between his legs, spread wide apart with knees bent at sharp angles, vulnerable. "Just tell me when you're ready."

Alfred nodded almost imperceptibly, snaked his arms up beneath Arthur's shoulders, breathed in long and deep, and whispered his consent. Arthur swallowed and began, making sure he could see Alfred's face so that he could stop immediately at the slightest hint of discomfort or pain. The process was excruciatingly long and required an exhausting degree of self-control, but eventually Alfred sighed and nodded against the crook of Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur tentatively began to move, slowly, cautiously at first, not speeding up until they had found a rhythm and he knew Alfred was enjoying it as well from the way he gasped and moaned and scrabbled against his back helplessly, his heels occasionally bumping against Arthur's hips and his fingers lacing into his hair, turning his face so that he could press their mouths together again and again, open and hot and demanding.

Previously Arthur had known and enjoyed sex like an old friend, but now he was almost irritated; clearly this old friend of his had been keeping secrets from him for quite some time now. Alfred was unsure and inexperienced and a little clumsy, but he made such an effort to meet Arthur halfway in each thrust, and took such pains to lean up and kiss him and to whisper and moan things in his ear while his hands inched over his body so tenderly, so almost-reverently, that just the slightest brush of a finger sent a thrill up Arthur's spine, that, well…Arthur knew pleasure, he knew it in an almost excruciating way, as something that was achieved, won, a victory of sorts, but now his perception was being shaken, changed, and amidst the sweat and heat and the soft background noises of sex he began to see things differently. Alfred was honest in love, he truly wanted nothing from Arthur but to be with him (that much was evident in his gasps and his touches and the garbled sentences he tried to whisper in his ear) and suddenly sex was no longer a sport where there was a triumph waiting to be gained, but rather…well, Arthur wasn't sure exactly what, but he was very sure indeed that he was comfortable and happy as well as positively thrumming with arousal, and he had never known it could be like this and he was somewhat irked that he had never been told so before.

He quietly groaned Alfred's name, the sound tangled up along with some sort of endearment, and Alfred tipped his head back and gasped, his fingertips digging into Arthur's shoulders and back, arching upwards against him and coming with his own little cries of _Arthur, Arthur_, the strangled sounds pushing Arthur to the end as Alfred sunk back onto the bed and wrapped his arms around him in a vice grip, their chests heaving against each other, still maintaining their rhythm as they rode out their orgasms together.

Once his breathing had somewhat slowed, Arthur slipped from Alfred and got up, ignoring the little moan of protest he received in favor of going to the bathroom and wetting a washcloth. He sat back on the bed and cleaned them both off before returning the cloth to the sink and slipping back between the sheets. Alfred grinned dopily at him and reached towards him to wrap his arms around his torso. Arthur smiled softy and turned in his embrace to brush his thumb across his still-flushed cheek.

"Was it alright, Alfred?" he asked softly. Alfred opened his eyes, adjusting his hopelessly lopsided glasses, and his grin deepened.

"Best I've ever had," he winked. Arthur shoved him gently on the shoulder and Alfred pulled him closer, burying his nose in his hair.

"Thank you, Arthur," he murmured against his temple. Arthur felt heat rise in his neck and face again and pushed at Alfred ineffectually.

"What on earth for, you enormous fool?" he stammered.

"Just…" He felt Alfred's lips curve against his forehead. "Thank you."

"Strange boy," whispered Arthur, burying his face in the crook of Alfred's shoulder. He hesitated for a moment, and then: "Nonetheless, I'm going to miss you terribly much come tomorrow."

He felt Alfred's palm curve across his cheek and tilt his face upwards so that their eyes met; there was a mischievous glimmer in Alfred's expression and Arthur quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Is there something funny?" he asked archly. "If so, do explain."

Alfred shook his head, eyes still twinkling.

"It's just…Artie…to be honest I don't see why."

Arthur blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, why would you miss me when I'm not gonna miss you?"

Arthur examined Alfred's face for a moment, found his expression to be very amused but nonetheless completely honest, and noticeably flinched, trying to unwind himself from his arms as his mouth went dry and his heart thudded unpleasantly in his chest.

"Noooo, Artie, stop!" Alfred was chuckling as he reached for him, catching his hand and pulling him back against his chest. "I wasn't finished!"

"I don't see how there's anything much to finish, Alfred," Arthur snapped, struggling to disguise how hurt he really was.

"No, you don't get it, Artie," Alfred leaned back, though he kept a firm grip on Arthur's hand, and began to rummage around in the drawer of his bedside table. "I have a surprise for you." He returned and triumphantly handed what looked to be a slip of paper to Arthur. "I can't believe I almost forgot. I'm not going to miss you because of, well…this!"

Arthur blinked down and turned the paper over in his hands, raising an eyebrow dubiously before he began to recognize the white and blue design, the little printed words, the complicated series of numbers arranged in little rows across the bottom. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Alfred, you didn't!"

It was a ticket.

"Oh, but I did."

To London.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Alfred was rambling in the background, his chin balanced on the backs of his hands. "But I only found out that I had managed to get you a seat yesterday, and I thought it might be interesting to have a little fun with you, y'know, see if you would finally admit that you were going to miss me," he winked. "Which you totally did, by the way, so I definitely win, whatever it is that I'm winning, I'm not really sure…but I should definitely get something. What do you think I deserve, Artie?"

"Alfred," Arthur sighed, lifting a hand to his temple. "It's…you've…I mean…" he sighed. "I can't possibly accept this."

Alfred frowned. "What are you talking about? Of course you can."

"No, it's too much, I could never…" Arthur gazed down incredulously at the ticket, running his thumb over it reverently as though it would dissipate between his fingers. "I simply can't."

"Is it because it's expensive?"

"Yes," admitted Arthur. "I know you have money now, Alfred, but you mustn't forget that your money came from a contract you signed with me, and that we're business partners on top of being…" he gestured helplessly to the clothes strewn about the room and the rumpled sheets and the sweat glistening on their bodies. "…this…and so I can't…it wouldn't be…"

"Would it make you feel better if I told you Elizaveta and Francis chipped in too?"

Arthur looked up at him sharply. "They did?"

Alfred nodded. "You've gotta understand, Arthur, filming in Paris was amazing, really it was, but without you…well, it just wasn't the same. It was like…like there was a piece missing, like something we absolutely couldn't do without was gone, and even though we filmed some awesome scenes, there wasn't…I mean…we didn't…well, we missed you, Arthur, more than you can ever know. You wouldn't believe us if we tried to tell you how much, you'd shake us off and call us silly, but that's the truth. I didn't buy this because of some selfish need for you…though not having to go without you now that we're together is a serious plus," he winked and took Arthur's unoccupied hand, his expression turning serious again. "We bought this together, because you're not just our screenwriter or my boyfriend…you're our friend, and we don't want to go anywhere without you again. So _please, _Arthur," he pressed Arthur's fingers firmly, gazing up at him with uncharacteristically solemn eyes. "Accept it."

Arthur suddenly found that he couldn't speak, that the swelling sensation that usually stayed confined in his chest had transitioned to his throat, so instead he leaned across the pillows, balanced one hand on Alfred's shoulder, and kissed him in the hopes of expressing his gratitude, his happiness, his relief, his pride at having such colleagues and lovers and friends as he did. Alfred responded with his usual eagerness, one hand going up to cradle the back of Arthur's head, his thumb stroking softly up and down his neck, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss.

Arthur pulled aware when he was sure he had found his voice and pressed their foreheads together, the hand that was not holding the ticket running through Alfred's hair.

"Thank you, Alfred," he whispered, rather hoarsely despite himself. "For everything."

Alfred smiled and kissed him tenderly on the nose. "It was nothing, Artie."

Arthur carefully tucked the ticket away into the pocket of his crumpled trousers before he found his boxers and put them back on while Alfred did the same; they slipped back between the sheets as Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur, arranging him so that he was splayed out across his chest, elbows folded so that the backs of his hands brushed his stomach. Arthur hid his smirk - only minutes ago, Alfred had been so uncertain, so vulnerable, and now he was positioning Arthur in the crook of his arm with complete ease and dominance - in Alfred's shoulder, breathing in the heavy scent of sweat and sex and that faint but persistent taste of cigarette smoke that surrounded them.

Just as Alfred's eyes began to close, Arthur sighed and tried to squirm from his embrace.

"Stop that, I just remembered," he said sharply when Alfred grabbed him around the waist and caused him to unceremoniously collapse back into his lap. "I have to pack for tomorrow; I haven't got a thing ready. There's no way I can sleep here tonight."

"No, Artie," moaned Alfred, trying to press him against his chest again. "You can pack in the morning!"

"In case you've forgotten, we're hopping on a bloody plane in the morning."

Alfred was silent for a moment, considering.

"You can buy all new stuff when we get there!" he finally proclaimed. "Now come back to bed."

Arthur sighed, trying to unlatch Alfred's hands from his waist. "No, Alfred, the ticket itself is too much as it is. I simply won't permit any more extravagances."

Alfred ignored this entirely, balancing his chin on Arthur's shoulder. With a heavy sigh, Arthur gave up his efforts at escape in favor of curling his hands into fists at his sides.

"We can go shopping together," implored Alfred. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

"It'll be expensive, that's what. And even if I did allow this, what would I wear on the plane tomorrow?"

Alfred shrugged. "Somethin' of mine."

"Nothing of yours fits me, lest you should forget."

"Only cause' my physique is so sexy," grinned Alfred, running his hands up and down Arthur's arms. "Don't try to deny it; I've caught you staring at my ass plenty of times."

Arthur flushed. "Utter bollocks!"

Alfred made a low noise of skepticism and pressed his mouth to the back of Arthur's neck. "C'mon, Arthur. We'll figure it out." His lips lingered at the curve of his shoulder. "Now come back to bed. Please?" And when Arthur turned he was making such an adorable expression, blue eyes wide and lip jutted out slightly and his cheek balanced in the palm of his hand, face still flushed and hair still damp with sweat from before, that he found he could do nothing but sigh and sink grouchily back into Alfred's arm as the idiot grinned with the thrill of his victory and pulled the sheets around them before securing Arthur to his chest.

"Your glasses," reminded Arthur, slipping a hand up his cheek to tap against the lopsided frames. Alfred thanked him and Arthur didn't take his hand away from his face even once he had put the glasses on the bedside table, instead curving his palm so that Alfred's cheek filled his fingers perfectly, brushing a thumb rhythmically across the gentle slope of bone. Alfred smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth before pulling him closer and resting his chin on the top of his head. Arthur let his cheek fall on Alfred's chest as their legs wound together beneath the sheets, and he thought that with the heat and the sweat considered, the position could have perhaps been uncomfortable if it weren't for the simple feeling of correctness there was to it all.

"Goodnight, Alfred," he murmured, so quietly he wondered if Alfred had heard at all. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, and then:

"Goodnight, Arthur." A pause. "See you in the morning."

That last addition was so childish that Arthur had to resist a laugh; it was more like something a parent might promise their child before they turned out the light than what lovers murmured to each other between the sheets, but nevertheless it was endearing, even reassuring, reminding Arthur that no longer was there a weeklong chasm stretching between that morning and the next, that he would accompany the arms wrapped around him now wherever they might go, at least for the moment. Indeed, it was a great comfort, and Arthur sighed in contentment as he closed his eyes and drowsily murmured to Alfred that for once he was right, they would without a doubt see each other again come the morning.

* * *

><p>Ugh. So romantic.<p>

AH, SO ROMANTIC! *dies*

Humor me, please. And I advise that you brush your teeth after reading to avoid cavities from all the fluff I've shoved down your throats. XD

**Yes, you did read correctly - **Alfred is the uke. At least for now.

_**Vertigo **_is another Alfred Hitchcock movie; I thought we'd continue the trend established in the second chapter.

**Fun Fact:** Alfred drives a red Mustang because that's what my friend decided he would drive when I asked her to pick a car. We still like to reminisce on our days in the _Fullmetal Alchemist_ fandom (pre-yaoi, ahaha), so we find this very amusing (and kind of super hot).

The next two chapters are set in London and will boast similar quantities of fluff, not to mention perhaps even a dash of angst in the form of flashbacks.

P.S. – That was the first sexytiem I've ever written in English. o.O If anyone's wondering, there is indeed a lot of vocabulary that they don't teach you in Spanish class…still, I have found that I can be much classier when I'm working with my native language. XD

As always, thank you, I love you all dearly, and until the next chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

So u gaiz. I just realized.

This fic is long. Really long. Already. About that…

Thank you guys so much for actually bothering to keep up with it and such. I can promise that my other work will *probably* not be *quite* so long-winded.

This being said,

**In Brief: **Off to London with our quartet, and…yeah. It's London. That's the point.

**Of Interest: **I have been to London several times, and on the second occasion I actually lived there for a pretty substantial part of the year while my parents worked at museums and universities in the area. Unfortunately, we left just as I was beginning to pick up a bit of a British twang…*sigh*.

Anyways, I love the city, and I have lots of favorite places to where I have selfishly decided to direct Alfred and Arthur. They are as follows:

**Trafalgar Square: **This one is pretty famous; I can't imagine that someone doesn't know about this. There's a big column and a lot of pigeons. It's pretty kewl.

**The National Gallery: **An art museum that is sort of at the back of Trafalgar Square, depending on how you look at it. My parents made my brother and I go to (almost) all the galleries in London on multiple occasions in an effort to turn us nice and intellectual. XD Seriously, though, it's a great museum. Though perhaps not as cool as The British Museum. They have mummies; LEGIT MUMMIES! Imagine being a kid and seeing mummies. It was pretty much the shit.

Gah, I sound so touristy. I really do still remember the entire tube system. If it weren't for the accent I could have been mistaken for a native.

*shifts awkwardly*

**St. Martin in the Fields: **A church to the side of Trafalgar Square that (at least when I was nine years old), had renovated its old crypt and turned it into a tea shop, among other things; I used to go there all the time. I understand that, since then, it has undergone some renovations, but I'm not sure of the state it's in now…does anybody know?

**And, **at the very end of this chapter Alfred and Arthur go to this park that I really _do _remember, but only very vaguely, so…it might not actually exist, or at least no how I see it. I remember it being on the far side of the Thames, and that it had a lovely view of the city and was kind of semi-lit by very…yellow lamps (trippy XD). I can't remember the name and we only went once. Therefore, my sincerest apologies to all readers across the pond if it seems that I have completely made this up – I was only a kid, have some mercy!

Other notes (not many; don't worry, haha) after the text.

And without further ado, chapter seven!

* * *

><p>It was not the first time that Arthur had woken with the smell of Alfred in his nose, but that morning, when he stirred between the sheets, he found that he also wore it wound through his hair, heavy at the base of his neck, daubed behind his ears like some sort of perfume, etched across the pads of his fingertips, lingering in the soft hollows of his inner thighs, all across every inch of his skin; he was positively drenched in it, and Alfred's arm still hung across his waist, hot and heavy and possessive, his elbow biting into his stomach a little but not so much that it compelled Arthur to shift and risk upsetting the delicate balance they seemed to have struck between themselves and the mattress. He blinked up and saw Alfred's chin, the line of his jaw hazy with stubble, eventually registering that his glance was both received and returned, and finally decided that Alfred was indeed awake when he felt lips press against his temple and a palm lazily brush at his hair.<p>

"We have to get up," Arthur whispered eventually. "I haven't even got a suitcase."

He felt Alfred's shoulders shift against him as he sighed. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," murmured Arthur. His nose rested at Alfred's collarbone. "So let's get to it, then."

Still neither of them moved. Arthur sighed – Alfred was so heavy and warm and secure surrounding him, and the feel of his arms lulled him towards sleep again, and though the morning pierced the curtains in thick bands of light, how important was London, anyways, when he was so tired and comfortable and so helplessly trapped between the sheets? He wouldn't be able to even rest his forehead against Alfred's shoulder during the flight, he considered grudgingly; the paparazzi would be there and therefore all of Alfred's affection would need to seem to belong to Elizaveta. What an unpleasant thought.

"Arthur," said Alfred softly, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to force you to do something that neither of us wants to do. That's role reversal in the extreme, man."

Arthur snorted; that comment was certainly enough to rouse him, and he pushed at Alfred's chest, the sheets falling to his navel.

"You make me sound like some sort of rapist," he grumbled as he kicked his legs over the edge of the bed. "Grow up a little, why don't you?"

Alfred grinned. "Oh, but I just did, Artie - by your doing, no less."

Arthur glared at him, a smile toying at the corners of his mouth all the same. "Sod off. Fucking virgin."

Alfred laughed and skipped off towards the kitchen, reminding Arthur in a halfway-singsong voice that that insult no longer applied, not anymore! and that the idea of a _fucking _virgin was an oxymoron, anyways. As he attempted to work out some of the wrinkles from his trousers, Arthur replied that he was surprised to see that Alfred even understood the term, and with an exasperated sigh gave up on looking presentable and found another one of Alfred's shirts that almost fit his shoulders, buttoning himself up deftly as he went to the kitchen.

Alfred was bent over the table, still in only his boxers, stuffing his cheeks with cereal and a banana and somehow managing to chug his coffee at the same time. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the smell and went to Alfred's cupboards without waiting for permission, rummaging around until he had accumulated something that roughly resembled breakfast, at which point Alfred had already disappeared back into the bedroom to get dressed. When Arthur had finished eating, he followed, and they shared the bathroom mirror, shaving and brushing their teeth together in an oddly domestic fashion, despite the fact that this was the first time they had spent the night together as…lovers? Arthur winced at himself when he thought the word; it not only sounded positively ridiculous, but didn't seem to suit their relationship at all. The sex didn't seem like a rendezvous or a tryst, nor was it something to be whispered about or tiptoed around. Instead it was…a statement, yes, it could definitely be called that, Arthur tentatively decided as he washed the extra shaving cream from his chin and stole a brief glance at Alfred; he was arranging the hair across his forehead and, without thinking, Arthur licked his thumb and pushed a flyaway strand into place with a soft cluck of his tongue, pausing only when he realized what he had done, heat rising about his neck and ears. Alfred blinked, grinned, caught Arthur's frozen hand in his and kissed him briefly, nothing more than a brush of lips and chin and the heady scent of aftershave.

Arthur swatted him lightly when he chuckled and leaned back again, still smiling, and skipped from the bathroom to go arrange his suitcases.

No, the term _lovers_ definitely wouldn't do at all.

* * *

><p>Elizaveta's embrace made his ribcage crack forebodingly; she would never learn to curb her enthusiasm, and Arthur turned his attention to Francis when she went to kiss Alfred for the cameras, briefly allowing himself to remember that little moment in the bathroom, to recall the hint of aftershave that still lingered at his jaw, as a means of distracting himself from how she clutched at Alfred's face, seeing as Arthur did know that it was really all a ruse, and even supported it, but nevertheless still rather envied her – had he and Alfred been a normal couple, he would have probably avoided any public displays of affection at whatever cost, but in their particular situation he found himself longing to simply reach across the space between them and take his hand or elbow, even if perhaps this was merely because he knew he couldn't.<p>

For better or for worse, Francis served as a means of distracting his attention.

"Arthur," he exclaimed as they reached security and began to take off their shoes and load their carryon luggage onto the conveyor belt. "I have just noticed. Where…" he paused, raising an eyebrow. "Where is your baggage?"

Arthur swallowed. "I…er…I haven't got any."

Francis' eyebrow arched higher. "You haven't?"

"No," said Arthur shortly, fishing his wallet from his trousers and placing it in one of the grey plastic bins along with his shoes, which Francis suddenly seemed much too interested in.

"Those shoes…" he murmured, tapping his chin. "They are the same ones you wore yesterday, are they not?"

Arthur tried to hurry forwards, but people had begun to realize that they were in the presence of America's shiniest golden couple and had begun to form little gaggles at the sides of the line.

"Are they really?" he tried to sound absentminded. "I hadn't noticed."

He glanced behind him and found that Francis was now unabashedly staring at his behind. Arthur glared.

"My eyes are up here," he hissed, gesturing at his face. Francis chuckled.

"I'm well aware, _mon cher. _It's just…" he paused again. "Correct me if I am wrong, but those seem to be the very same pair of _pants_ you wore yesterday…surely, however, I am mistaken."

"Indeed you are," snapped Arthur as he stepped through the metal detector. "I have a lot of similar-looking trousers."

"I'm sure you do," Francis murmured after he had emerged from the other side and begun unloading his things from the conveyor belt. He followed Arthur to one of the airport benches, tied his shoelaces, ran his fingers through his hair, and stood up with a smirk. _"_So, how was he?_"_

Arthur flushed and concentrated on his shoes. "Stop speaking in French, you know I can't understand you."

Francis chuckled. "Did I slip into my native tongue? Forgive me; I didn't even notice."

"Well, I did."

"But even so," Francis paused, presumably for effect. "I somehow feel that you've gotten the message."

"I most certainly have not."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Fine then, I will translate…was he a good fuck, or no?"

Arthur made a strangled little noise and Francis' smirk deepened.

"Forgive me, _mon ami,_ but English is simply so much more vulgar than my lovely tongue that I'm afraid that was the best translation I could manage."

"Translate this," snapped Arthur, tearing off down the airport hallway in pursuit of the camera flashes and gaggles of people which indicated that Alfred and Elizaveta weren't far away. "Sod off."

"I would, but I don't know how. Still, perhaps you could teach me, Arthur," drawled Francis as he followed him towards their terminal. "Having just come from doing so, after all."

Arthur glanced behind his shoulder to glare and Francis fell silent, though the smirk persisted throughout the boarding process, only fading when they got to their seats and he discovered that they were arranged in a fashion that was not conductive to his little games with the flight attendants. Arthur rolled his eyes and buckled his seatbelt; they were seated four to a row, Francis at the window (where he could not tug at pencil skirts or make simpering faces or drop little strings of French on unsuspected stewardesses and stewards alike), Arthur next to him, Alfred second to last, and Elizaveta on the aisle, where she could easily hand out autographs and look glowingly in love for the photographers.

Once they had taken off, Alfred eased down his tray table and slipped a hand under it; Arthur jumped slightly when he felt a palm press against his knee but said nothing, merely glanced cautiously at Francis, who was gazing forlornly out the window, then lowered his own table and snuck his hand beneath it to wind his fingers with Alfred's. He received a brilliant smile in return and gave a little cough, averting his eyes so as not to seem to obvious, as though someone were scrutinizing them for even the slightest sign of homosexuality, which was of course a ridiculous idea.

Alfred clearly did not labor under the same delusion; in fact, as gaggles of people made their pilgrimages up and down the aisles of the plane in search of their precious moment with the golden couple, he signed autographs and posed for snapshots one-handed, even managing to maintain a steady rhythm with the pad of his thumb over the back of Arthur's hand, back and forth, back and forth, scribble your signature, smile big and wide, that's right, look like you love her even though beneath the tray table you're holding (stroking, pressing, comforting) the hand of the man who took your virginity the night before. Lights, camera, action. That's a wrap. And the Oscar goes to…

Eventually, when the hubbub surrounding Elizaveta and Alfred had died down, Arthur even dared to speak to him, and though they hardly whispered sweet nothings in each other's ears, choosing instead to discuss the quality of the airplane food (dreadful, despite their first class position) and the plots of the in-flight movies (also dreadful, perhaps owed to the fact that they were all recent American productions) at least they were talking, laughing, and even if they were perhaps smiling at each other a bit too much, they could have easily passed for friends. And still, their hands remained intertwined beneath their tray tables, a tacit reminder of what was what in the decidedly vexing entire scheme of things.

"London in the morning," murmured Alfred as the cabin lights flickered out around them, plunging them into dimness punctured occasionally by the soft artificial glow of a reading lamp. Arthur couldn't help but to smile in excitement.

"To be honest, I'm excited to see her again," he said softly. "It's been too long, much too long."

Francis had fallen asleep with his cheek resting on the flat of his fingers and Elizaveta was deeply immersed in one of her (admittedly rather questionable) Hungarian romance novels. The cabin was quiet but not silent, rustling with the quiet noises of people shifting and breathing and murmuring to each other in voices that seemed to be afraid to break the confines of an undertone.

"I wish I could kiss you," sighed Alfred, so quietly that Arthur wasn't entirely sure he had heard it at all.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard what I said." Alfred pressed his palm beneath the tray tables to reinforce the words. Arthur glanced up nervously, his eyes inevitably drawn to the bow of Alfred's lips, bent into a pensive little frown. He swallowed.

"I probably wouldn't have let you even if it weren't for all this," he gestured around them rather helplessly. "I've never been much for public affection and such. I don't want to draw unpleasant attentions to myself. But still…" he trailed off. "I'd like to have the option of pushing you away, at least."

Alfred was silent for a moment, then he grinned at him.

"One day, you will. Soon, okay?"

Arthur sighed and returned the smile as best he could.

"Yeah, Alfred," he whispered. "One day. Soon."

* * *

><p>Despite his conscious decision to relocate to America with Francis and Elizaveta in order to escape the weight of the memories that the entire continent of Europe plagued him with, Arthur couldn't help but smile when he gazed out the airplane window onto the turnpike and took in the overcast sky and the damp sheen that there was to the pavement. The general grey tone of the landscape sharply defined the green of the plots of grass that dotted the runways, and little lines of rain spattered their windows periodically but without much enthusiasm; Arthur considered that in America, a rainstorm was an event, a grand spectacle, never really anything less than a downpour even when it was only a drizzle, while in England, rain was a constant, something you brushed from your hair or the lenses of your glasses without a second thought - humble, quiet, reliable, entirely unexciting - a routine, and, at least at that moment, a comfort. Arthur smiled.<p>

"Man, does the sun ever shine around here?" muttered Alfred, craning his neck to get a glimpse out the window and wrinkling his nose. Arthur answered him with a roll of his eyes as they began to stand up to arrange their carryon luggage and file towards the exit of the plane. Francis was uncharacteristically ruffled and wiped the sleep from his eyes with the back of his palm as they gradually progressed through the aisle, half of his silk shirt hanging untucked from his trousers. Elizaveta and Alfred held hands and smiled for the paparazzi and Arthur tried not to notice and to look at least moderately cheerful, though none of the cameras winked for him.

He was gratified to see that the good people of his home country were not nearly as excited to see Hollywood's golden couple as the Americans had been; in fact, Elizaveta and Alfred were spared nothing more than a handful of casual glances and a little whispering as they passed through the airport and towards the baggage claims, although a little horde of paparazzi still trailed behind them, their cameras snapping viciously every so often. Arthur sighed lightly, wondering if this would be the case throughout the trip, as they fetched their bags and went to hail a taxi to take them to their hotel.

However, his heart lightened considerably when they stepped outside and, taking a deep breath through his nose, he was able to taste the city again on the air. There was nothing quite like it, no exact replica of the combination of rain and exhaust and something that was not quite tangible but doubtless very, very old, that filled the air around and within London. Occasionally during his travels Arthur would catch something that roughly resembled that flavor on the tip of his tongue, but it was never exact, and he smiled despite himself, admitting that it was somewhat good to be back.

They piled into the taxi, Francis taking the front with Alfred squeezed – ironically – between Arthur and Elizaveta, though it was Arthur who felt the flat of Alfred's palm press against his thigh and glared before he allowed himself to smile and relax just a little bit as they left the suburbs and began to drive further into the city, the buildings and the sidewalks streaming together outside their window like watercolors painted in thick strokes, thin browns and grays and muted blues running into one color with the help of the persistent drizzle.

"It's so dreary," sighed Francis from the front. "Where is the beauty? The spirit? _Et surtout, oú est le amour?"_

"Shut it, Francis," snapped Arthur, and Francis chuckled, leaning back to cast him a long look.

"Protective, I see," he smirked. "But I thought you and London had severed relations long ago. Don't tell me you are still attached!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, perhaps a little exaggeratedly. "It's a city, Francis - not a lover, as you might like to believe."

Francis had opened his mouth to counter that statement with some undoubtedly melodramatic and breathy contradiction when Alfred interrupted him to ask Arthur if something had happened in London to make him…(here he hesitated) sever relations, as Francis had put it. Arthur waved his hand dismissively and told him that it was nothing important, just family issues which he didn't like to recall and which Francis very much liked to exaggerate when there was nothing else around to occupy his free time. Alfred bit down on his lower lip and his brow crinkled and he didn't seem to entirely believe him, but Arthur pressed his palm rather forcibly and he pursued the subject no further.

They arrived at their hotel not much later, and Arthur was both privately happy and obviously embarrassed to be told by Elizaveta that, with a little tiptoeing around, he and Alfred could successfully occupy the enormous suite that had originally been designated for the golden couple, while she and Francis took the single rooms - they just had to keep up a rather complicated, though not undoable, pretense of entering and leaving in front of the cameras. Alfred beamed and gave Elizaveta a high-five while Arthur blushed and stuttered his thanks, trying to ignore Francis' smirking and chuckling and the half-muffled kissing noises he made every once in a while.

They soon discovered that the suite was extravagant to a ridiculous extent; it must have been at least three times the size of Arthur and Francis' apartment and featured every commodity that one could ever possibly need under any circumstances. Needless to say, Alfred found this entirely thrilling, so while he marveled at the electric kettle and excitedly perused the minibar, Arthur set about arranging their luggage and making sure everything was in its place. He finished fluffing the pillows and stepped back to admire his handiwork as Alfred let out a cry of delight upon discovering the presence of a television mounted above the bathtub.

"Dude, Arthur, do you see that?" he cried, barreling back into the bedroom. "We could be watching _Monty Python_ and taking a bath at the same time!"

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Yes, it's all very thrilling – except that I can only wish you good luck with finding _Monty Python_ still running on any station whatsoever. You honestly couldn't think of any other British television program?"

Alfred shrugged. "_The Office – _but ours is better anyways. And besides, it's the _idea _of watching TV in the tub that's so exciting."

"Mm, I'm sure," Arthur turned around to give the pillows one last definitive fluffing. "Still, you're more suited to _CBeebies _than anything else, I'm afraid."

"I feel like that's an insult," said Alfred slowly. "But I'm not sure."

Arthur smirked. "I'll leave you to puzzle it over."

Alfred pouted. "You're mean."

"I know, dear," sighed Arthur, turning from the bed again and smiling at his handiwork. "You poor thing, being around a cantankerous old grouch such as myself - how do you possibly survive such frequent exposures to actual maturity?"

Alfred's pout curved upwards slightly at the edges. "I'll show you, Artie!" he cried, and suddenly sprung towards the bed, landing smack in the middle and upsetting the meticulous arrangement of the sheets and pillows, somehow grabbing Arthur's hand as he did so and pulling him along, arms locking around his waist to secure him to his chest. "Just like this!"

Arthur sighed, not even bothering to try and escape because he knew any effort he made would be in vain, and Alfred grinned triumphantly.

"Look, you great oaf, now you've upset my pillows," said Arthur eventually, his voice muffled because half his face was pressed into the fabric of Alfred's shirt. "If you'd so kindly let me get up to fix them…"

He felt rather than saw Alfred shake his head above him, and could very easily envision the grin still spread wide across his face.

"Alfred, you know, this is really quite uncomfortable. If you would be so kind as to adjust our position…"

Alfred obliged to rearrange them so that Arthur was pressed against the mattress while Alfred hovered above him, propped up on his elbows with half his weight still pressing down on Arthur's lower body, warm and heavy. Arthur sighed again.

"This isn't what I had in mind."

"Geez, you're high maintenance," Alfred murmured, reaching for his hand, which rested beside the pillow. "Nothing I can do is good enough, eh?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I'm a regular Kate Middleton," Arthur sighed, allowing Alfred to wind their fingers together.

"A regular who?"

Arthur smiled. "Well, it was a rather long time ago. I'm not surprised you Americans have already forgotten. But at the time, you were in quite an uproar," he patted Alfred's cheek affectionately. "Let's just say I'm a regular princess, so cruel and demanding with my brave hero."

"Mm, I'll say," Alfred yawned, and suddenly he splayed himself entirely across Arthur, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, his mouth warm against his jugular. "Dude, I'm so jetlagged. Let's sleep, m'kay?"

Arthur chuckled softly, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Alfred's neck. "Unfortunately, we've got things to do…such as purchase an entirely new wardrobe, seeing as I have little else but a borrowed shirt and some trousers…which was originally _your _suggestion, lest you should forget."

Alfred lifted his face to stick his tongue at him and tell him that he really _was _awfully high maintenance before he returned to nuzzling the crook of his shoulder.

"Yes," Arthur chuckled, managing to press his lips to the back of Alfred's head. "I'm positively awful, aren't I, poppet?"

He felt Alfred's frown against his neck. "Did you just call me poppet?"

"Well, you're acting like a child," Arthur tried to sit up and only succeeded in making Alfred grunt and burrow further into his shoulder. "Honestly, must you always be like this?"

"Hey," Alfred murmured. "You can hardly blame me. I had to sit next to you for eight hours barely touching you. I couldn't even tease you or anything, and you're so cute when you're angry and all," he was obviously on the verge of sleep, scarcely mumbling into Arthur's neck. "Cut me some slack for wanting a little extra to compensate."

Arthur swallowed. Must Alfred always be so endearingly genuine? And he was so warm and heavy and hard to shake off, reminding Arthur of his own tiredness and helping him to forget that they really did have things to do, places to go, people to see, etcetera, etcetera…again he frowned to remember that the moment they stepped from their hotel room, he couldn't even hold Alfred's hand despite the fact that they weren't planning on going anywhere for business until the next day.

"Shut up, you sound ridiculous," he muttered, pushing gently against Alfred's shoulder and receiving nothing more than a low chuckle in reply. "Come on, I'll tell you what. I give you a kiss, and then you let us go out and do what we have to. Sound fair?"

This proposition seemed to pique Alfred's interest, and he lifted his face from the crook of Arthur's shoulder, his glasses askew across his face, blinking at him tiredly, but contentedly and curiously, a gentle smirk curving his mouth.

"Sounds fair."

"Alright then," Arthur managed to struggle into something that could resemble an upright position, cupping his hand around Alfred's chin and pulling him forwards.

"Just one," he warned, turning Alfred's chin to the side to throw him off his path when he leaned towards his lips eagerly. "After which, we go."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred nodded. "I promise."

Arthur smirked and craned his neck to kiss him properly, thoroughly, opening his mouth and reaching up to wrap one arm around his neck while the other still clutched at his chin, curving along the strong line of his jawbone and up to cup his cheek. Alfred's other hand traveled downwards to grip the small of Arthur's back and draw him closer, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, shivering against him with an obvious desperation that sent Arthur's pulse into a dizzying climb. He pulled back with a little gasp and patted Alfred's cheek, gratified to see that he was considerably flushed and had kept his eyes closed, only opening them to follow Arthur rather reproachfully when he slipped from his arms and stood up from the bed, straightening his mussed shirt and running a hand through his hair, a slight, triumphant smile on his lips.

"Keep your promise," he warned when Alfred seemed to consider flopping back down onto the pillows. "Or else I won't get back on that bed with you for the rest of the week."

Alfred glared, but he sat up nevertheless.

"You're bluffing."

"So you'd like to believe."

"You could never resist my ridiculous sex appeal."

Arthur smirked and leaned forwards to grip Alfred patronizingly by the chin.

"Just watch me, poppet," he breathed, only to whirl away when Alfred tried to force their mouths together again. Once he had gained a safe distance, he wagged a finger at him teasingly.

"I told you, Alfred, you only get one until _I_ get some new clothes."

Alfred sighed, shaking his head from side to side as he dragged himself from the bed.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair and straightening his shirt. "High Street Kensington?"

Arthur snorted, and Alfred merely grinned at him.

"Alright. Harrods', then."

"Oh, you're positively adorable, Alfred," said Arthur with a long roll of his eyes as he fished a jacket from Alfred's suitcase, frowning at the way the sleeves hung far over the tips of his fingers.

"Come on, Arthur, everything is on the studio!" Alfred picked up the bomber jacket that he had sequestered from the set and shrugged into the arms. "Let's go real high-end, eh?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him dubiously. "Even if we did charge Gil and Tony for everything…why should I?"

"Cause you're pretty and you deserve clothes that make you beautiful!"

At this, Arthur actually laughed aloud.

"I'm not a girl, Alfred."

"Fine then," Alfred stuck his tongue out at him as he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. "_Handsome. _Is that better?"

"Not in public," Arthur smirked, dropping his voice to a whisper even though there was nobody else in the hallway with them. "Outside that room, you can only be jealous of my _fantastic, _nay, _irresistible,_ looks. No attraction allowed – that would be gay, now, wouldn't it?"

Alfred chuckled as they stepped into the elevator, glanced behind them briefly, then reached down and grabbed Arthur firmly on the ass as he passed him through the elevator doors. When he was met with Arthur's resulting fury, he merely laughed, held up his hands innocently, and explained that Arthur had said so himself, he was positively _irresistible, _and Alfred, for one, wouldn't be surprised if he went coloring the blood of all of Hollywood's good handsome heterosexual starlets rainbow at some point or another. Maybe something like that, he added with a wink, would finally bring some life back to the city.

* * *

><p>If he squinted at the mirror at the right angle, Arthur could read the price tag that hung from the lapel of the suit jacket he was being forced to try on, and his frown deepened considerably, the crease between his brow becoming more pronounced.<p>

"How does it look?" called Alfred from the other side of the curtain.

"Like Gil and Antonio are going to kill us if they ever find out," Arthur replied archly. "Or worse, force us to go make a movie deal with some all-American company."

He heard Alfred chuckle. "Very funny. They'll never know. Really, how does it look?"

Arthur sighed for his own benefit; they really weren't doing a very good job of maintaining a platonic façade, what with Alfred splayed out in what was clearly designated as the department store's _husband chair, _cheering Arthur on as he cycled through countless different shirts, jackets, and trousers until the floor of the fitting room was entirely lost amidst the piles of silk and tweed and corduroy.

Nevertheless, he took a moment to examine his latest ensemble: a crisp collared dress shirt tucked into sharply pleated trousers, a rather ostentatious (Alfred liked it very much) red tie, and the breathtakingly expensive dark green suit jacket, fitted neatly at his waist and accented with wide lapels and little golden buttons.

"It looks…" he hesitated. "Expensive."

"Besides that," called Alfred after a moment.

Arthur glared, despite the fact that Alfred couldn't see him. "I'm not about to bloody describe it to you, you know."

"But I wanna know what it looks like!"

"Too bad."

"Arthur, come on!"

"No."

"If you don't, I swear I'm gonna - "

"Shut it, Alfred," Arthur said sharply, shrugging out of the jacket and tossing it to the floor. "What exactly do you plan on doing about it, anyways? Are you actually going to burst in on me? Don't be preposterous." And he was halfway through the buttons on the shirt when Alfred did just that, his face falling when he saw that Arthur had already begun to take apart the ensemble.

"No fair!" he cried, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was holding the curtain open and thereby allowing half the store to get a glimpse of Arthur and his sea of discarded clothing. "Put it back on again, I didn't get to see!"

Blushing furiously, Arthur shoved him out of the room again, pulling the curtain back into place after him with a snap. He knew Alfred was likely still hovering just on the other side, so he scarcely whispered when his breathing had slowed to the point where it would allow him to deliver the appropriate lecture.

"Alfred F. Jones, do you honestly think people won't suspect anything if you go charging in on me when I'm bloody halfway naked?"

Nothing but a little snicker from the other side of the curtain. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You really are nothing more than an overgrown child, honestly. If, and I mean _if_, I were to buy the damned jacket, you would get to see it on me soon enough, and without making a spectacle of yourself and drawing attention to the fact that…well, that I don't see Elizaveta around here, do you?"

Alfred was quiet for a moment, and then: "So you like the jacket?"

Arthur sighed. "It costs a fortune."

"But it would be Gil and Tony's fortune, which Elizaveta and I are totally making for them in the first place just by, like, making out for a few minutes and stuff."

"What a lovely thing to remind me of," muttered Arthur, but he smoothed and folded the jacket into his arms nevertheless, sorting through the rest of the clothing strewn across the floor to salvage a few shirts and trousers that he had also found to be acceptable and not too tremendously overpriced before he kicked the rejects into a towering pile in one corner. When he finally pushed aside the curtain again, Alfred sprung from his armchair and spread his arms wide, as if he expected some sort of embrace, while he expressed how grateful he was that his darling princess had finally emerged. A few of the other shoppers glanced up from the racks of clothes, and Arthur merely picked up the bags they had already accumulated and headed straight for checkout, not even bothering to acknowledge Alfred as he followed excitedly behind, flailing his arms and rambling about one thing or another as they paid and thanked the salesgirl, who gave them a rather curious glance as she ran their purchases but clearly didn't recognize Alfred and therefore didn't pursue whatever suspicions she had any further.

"I would never have suspected it, Alfred," sighed Arthur as they stepped from the department store back onto the street, the damp wind immediately cutting through their clothes and setting Alfred to clasping his hands together in an exaggerated display of cold. "But overall, you adhere to more gay stereotypes than I do. I've never even seen my own mother so excited about clothing," he glanced rather guiltily at the considerable collection of bags that hung at his side. "Nor have I seen her buy quite so much."

Alfred laughed, seemed to start to sling an arm around Arthur's shoulder, then obviously remembered their situation and merely grinned at him.

"It's because you're special, Artie."

Arthur raised an eyebrow rather amusedly. "So you insist on telling me. If only the American paparazzi could see us now," he smirked at Alfred as they descended the stairs to the tube stop. "Positively rabid, they are. They'd catch on right away."

"We could deny it as long as we never touched each other," protested Alfred as they slid their cards through the meters and went down towards the platform.

"Lest you should forget, you charged in on me while I was changing, under the pretenses of getting a peek at my _new look,_ no less." The train rushed into the station, buffeting them with the stale air of the tunnel as it gradually slowed to a stop, the doors opening with a low hiss. "I think that's pretty gay under any circumstances."

Alfred shrugged as they stepped into the car and found a place to rest their mountain of shopping bags.

"Whatever. Where are we off to now, Artie?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur glanced warily at their teetering pile of purchases. "I've certainly got all I need. Is there anything you should accomplish before we start work tomorrow?"

Alfred seemed to consider for a moment.

"I'm kinda hungry," he said finally, and Arthur chuckled as he glanced at his watch.

"It's nearly teatime," he observed. "Want that I show you how afternoon tea is done properly?" he paused. "Not that you ignorant Americans have ever given it even enough thought to even bother to mess it up, come to think of it. Then again, I suppose formalities such as a schedule are hardly necessary when you're constantly heaping food into your mouth."

Alfred snorted before he surveyed Arthur warily, pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. "Do we have to go to a frilly tea parlor or something? Because _that, _my friend, is gay."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I hate to admit it, but you may have a point there - luckily enough for your sake." He sighed. "I suppose can think of a few less formal places, but only on the condition that afterwards, we go do something to culture ourselves – such as a museum, perhaps. London has some really lovely galleries that I think would do you some good."

Alfred made a face but nodded nonetheless. "Fine, fine. But after _that, _I get to take you somewhere for dinner, okay?" he lowered his voice. "With extra long tablecloths so that I can play footsy with you and no cameras will notice."

"You should know that I would never play _footsy _with you under any circumstances, Alfred, much less when we're trying to look entirely heterosexual and uninvolved."

Alfred chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyways, I get to take you out to dinner then we're going to walk around the city, maybe to the Thames or something -"

"The Thames is an absolute shithole; why in the world would you want to see it?"

"Be_cause, _Artie!" Alfred rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "It's the freaking Thames and I'm a dumbshit American tourist and there's the London Bridge and The Eye and Westminster Abbey all nearby and I can totally gawk at all of them at once and shout things in my obnoxious accent and embarrass you a ton!" he paused briefly for air. "God, you really area cynic. I don't know why I hang out with you."

"Yes, yes, you must be a masochist of sorts," murmured Arthur distractedly, glancing around the train to see if anyone else had picked up on their conversation; he was relieved to find that the other passengers were still engaged in their own business and returned his attention to Alfred.

"So, after we see what must be the filthiest river in history with our very own eyes, we're going to..?"

"Go back to the hotel room and have some explosive sex in our awesomely huge bed," answered Alfred unabashedly. "So long, jetlag!"

Arthur choked a little and elbowed Alfred sharply in the ribs; Alfred merely grinned dopily at him and very gallantly picked up half of the shopping bags when the train arrived at their stop, sauntering onto the platform with his one of his little tongue-in-cheek salutes, earning himself a sharp swat from Arthur as they made their way back up the escalator and onto the street.

By then a light drizzle was falling, dotting the sidewalks with little splotches of wet and sticking to the frames of Alfred's glasses as they made their way towards Trafalgar Square, the mid-afternoon traffic churning past them on the streets while people swirled through the sidewalks and byways, occasionally catching in little eddies at crosswalks or supermarkets. Alfred could do nothing but follow Arthur's lead through the streets, and Arthur didn't speak, choosing instead to appreciate the low hum of the city and the sound of his heels striking rhythmically against the damp cobblestone or pavement, though he occasionally had to very pointedly ignore Alfred when the buffoon gasped at the sight of a double-decker bus or was distracted by one of the tourist-trap kiosks set up along the sidewalk or did something else equally ridiculous and typically American.

They took their afternoon tea in a church off to the side of the square, and Alfred's restlessness was temporarily placated by the presence of scones and something hot to drink, though he whined about the lack of good coffee and, ever true to his word, attempted to play footsy with Arthur beneath the table, which of course only earned him a firm mash on the toes and a sharp glare over the rims of their mugs. Once they had finished (Gilbert and Antonio paid yet again), Arthur managed to drag Alfred across Trafalgar Square (with a brief stop to ogle at the brass lions, their hides chilly and wet and shining in the cold air and the rain) and towards The National Gallery, where it was at least warm and dry even if Alfred was complaining rather loudly about his level of boredom.

It was a work day, therefore almost nobody aside from a few stray tourists and a gaggle of students was perusing the galleries, and for the first time since they had left their hotel room Arthur allowed himself to relax a little bit, smile even, especially when Alfred would actually shut up for a moment to admire a painting or a sculpture, though when Arthur questioned him regarding his opinion he would immediately resume his bored and mindless façade.

Nonetheless, by the time they left the museum Arthur felt he had at least accomplished at least something along the lines of culturing Alfred. By this time, the afternoon had begun to fade into evening and the cold cut through their clothes; Arthur clasped his hands together irritably when they stepped from the museum, sighing and watching his breath burst from between his teeth in a thick white cloud.

"Christ, this weather," he hissed, rubbing his hands briskly up and down his forearms. "I've grown far too accustomed to bleeding California, I'm afraid."

"I could warm you up," offered Alfred blithely.

"Hush now, dear," replied Arthur, and they set off again into the city.

* * *

><p>Alfred had evidently forgotten that he was well-acquainted with neither London's city planning nor her restaurants, and unfortunately it took a considerable while before he was willing to admit to this and allow Arthur to steer them towards a good place (which was to say, not featuring English cuisine) that he remembered near the Thames, which Alfred still insisted on as their final destination. By the time they arrived at the restaurant they were cold and wet and Arthur was in a yet darker mood than before, especially because he had caught the wink of a camera or two at their backs as they had made their way back through the city and knew that the British media was starting to pick up on their presence, and that soon any semblance of privacy would be entirely lost outside the walls of their hotel room.<p>

Even Alfred seemed vaguely dispirited; he didn't even bother to complain when he saw that there were no hamburgers included on the menu and fiddled with the stem of his wine glass instead of molesting Arthur's feet beneath the table, the crease between his brow seeming to have taken up permanent residence, though, Arthur had to admit, the pensive air it added to his features certainly wasn't unbecoming, although it seemed a bit like a suit that didn't quite fit those blue eyes and soft cheeks and perpetually lopsided glasses.

They were in a fairly dark corner of the restaurant, and once the waitress had left their table, Arthur took a long sip of his wine and decided that he was going to begin the conversation this time around, though he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Alfred truly did look depressed, and it was so uncharacteristic that Arthur was suddenly worried that he had been a little too crisp, too businesslike with him, even though they were supposed to seem platonic – they still didn't know their way around each other's feelings yet and he fretted that he might have overstepped a boundary, that Alfred would equate Arthur's words and actions with what he was actually thinking.

"Penny for your thoughts, Alfred." he managed, lifting his wine glass the moment he uttered the final syllable as a means of occupying his lips. Alfred glanced up at him questioningly.

"Why the sudden interest?"

"You're quiet," replied Arthur blatantly. "And not trying to inch up my bare thigh with your toes. Therefore, I'm wondering what's gotten into you."

Alfred smiled softly. "I can't be thoughtful every once in a while?"

"Not without telling me why, no."

At this, Alfred chuckled softly. "Fair enough. I'm just…" he paused, biting down on his lower lip. "I'm trying to…y'know…um…preserve the atmosphere," he gestured around them vaguely. "…I guess. I mean, this is the last sort of…" he leaned across the table to whisper the word like a nervous schoolgirl. "_Date…_that we'll get to have in a while, right? So…yeah. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I believe so," he paused, took another sip of his wine, and pressed forwards. "Although, really, Alfred, your general…manner of being, so to speak…has always rather set the atmosphere for our excursions together, so…to try and subdue yourself is rather counterintuitive. Not to mention, our conversation may suffer because of it," he shrugged. "But this is all merely food for thought."

Alfred smiled again, focusing on swirling the wine in his glass; slowly, back and forth, with methodic little turns of his fingers. "I know. But I thought I might give you a break for a bit, y'know…after all, you _are_ always saying that I'm immature."

"Because you are," Arthur interrupted unabashedly, but lifted a hand when Alfred shifted forwards in his seat to speak. "And though it does annoy me at times, regardless, it's part of your character," he shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal despite what he was preparing to say. "I would never…er…try to rewrite you, so to speak. That would ruin the entire mood of…this script…"It was his turn to gesture around them with no particular subject in mind. "So I suggest that you refrain from doing so as well."

Alfred blinked and it didn't slip past Arthur that the little line between his brows vanished, and (in that same metaphorical sense) he shed his crisp and uncomfortable suit almost immediately, falling back into the old bedraggled leather bomber jacket that he had stolen from the studio so long ago. The light was dim and heavy but even so Arthur was fairly sure that he saw the faintest trace of a blush at his cheeks.

"What are you staring at, you oaf?" he said sharply when Alfred merely sat there, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed as wide as the plates on the tablecloth before them.

"Arthur…" Alfred let his name hang in the air between them for a moment before he followed it with his next thought. "That's gotta be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Arthur snorted and gazed into his wine to avoid meeting Alfred's gaze, feeling a touch of heat rise about his cheeks and neck as he began to fully appreciate exactly what he had just expressed - admittedly in a bit of a backwards fashion, but expressed nonetheless.

"Don't be preposterous," he muttered.

"No, I mean it," Alfred sounded earnest; Arthur didn't look up to see his face. "Thank you."

Arthur dared to glance up at Alfred and found that his breath caught a little in his throat at the sight of his expression; his entire face was overwhelmed by one of those damn grins of his, all twinkling eyes and smudged, lopsided glasses and teeth glinting in the dim glow cast by the little candle sitting on their table. The rain had dried from his hair a little funnily and it stuck up in a couple odd places, though it was still the color of gold and looked as though it would be quite soft to the touch, and in fact Arthur found that he really wanted to run his hands through it while he kissed Alfred on the forehead, which was really ridiculous because that wasn't something lovers did; it was something sweethearts did, or worse, something married couples did, most likely while they were helplessly spooning each other after mediocre sex, and Alfred and Arthur had barely had sex at all, much less given it the time required in order to get mediocre…but still more importantly, they were in public, therefore Arthur merely coughed into his napkin and averted his gaze as if refusing to look at Alfred would somehow disguise his discomfort.

"Don't get bloody used to it," he muttered, and was very grateful that the waitress arrived with their food because Alfred became much too involved with the rather daunting task of keeping his mouth constantly full to tease Arthur further. Alfred insisted on ordering dessert (again arguing that everything could be billed to Gilbert and Antonio) and Arthur only put up a halfhearted fight and stole a few spoonfuls when he thought Alfred wasn't looking, though he outright refused the very generous offer of being fed from the same fork.

They paid and stepped back out into the night, and Arthur couldn't help but smile when he felt the familiar pulse of London (he had made a lifelong acquaintance with her heartbeat while he roamed her streets with Francis and Elizaveta during their boarding school days) running through the streets and the alleyways, thrumming through the damp pavement and cobblestone, growing steadily stronger until Alfred and Arthur arrived at her heart, the Thames, the water stained with the light of the moon and the streetlamps and the metallic glitter of the Eye, almost beautiful.

"And you told me it was a shithole," Alfred sighed almost accusingly.

"It is," smirked Arthur. "At night, you can't see the shit."

This merited a little chuckle and they stood looking out on the water for a moment more before Alfred sighed again, jammed his hands in his pockets, and turned to Arthur with a bit of a pout.

"What is it, Alfred?" asked Arthur warily.

"It's so…well-lit," Alfred glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Isn't there anywhere more private we can go?"

Arthur glared, taking an instinctive step backwards lest Alfred should attempt to assault him then and there.

"I don't know what you're suggesting, but if you think that I'm even so much as touching you outside the security of our hotel room, I would advise that you reconsider."

Alfred laughed. "No, no, don't get the wrong idea. It'd just be nice to be alone a little bit," he smiled reassuringly. "Maybe I would try to hold your hand. Like…if we were sitting on a bench, we could do it behind our backs so nobody could see, or something like that."

"A bench?" Arthur furrowed his brow. "Are you thinking of some sort of park?"

Alfred shrugged. "It doesn't really matter where, just some place with less light and a lot less people."

"So you want to be robbed, is that it? What a brilliant cover story that would make _US Weekly._ Better still if they got a picture of the thug nicking your wallet while your hand was down my trousers, hm?"

"_Arthur._"

"Fine, fine." Arthur sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I suppose that I may know of a place that fits your description. Come on."

The walk was a bit long but Arthur got the feeling that Alfred didn't dare to complain under the circumstances, seeing as he merely kept pace with Arthur's brisk stride and smiled contentedly, bobbing up and down a little with each step, hands tucked into his jacket pockets with the elbows sticking out jauntily to either side. Again, they didn't talk much, but the silence was comfortable and content, the need for conversation satisfied by their full stomachs and each other's company.

They crossed the river and cut into a park that looked out on the city and was lit only along its pathways, by streetlamps that seemed eerie in the sudden semidarkness. Arthur led Alfred down a little side route, hoping that his memory would serve him correctly, and smiled to see that he obviously still knew every inch of London as well as always: they had found themselves situated near a path that practically ran along the banks of the Thames, sparsely lit and dotted by benches (rather perfectly fitting Alfred's description, if Arthur dared say so himself). And the view was lovely, half of London spread out like a quilt before them, glowing bright and making the darkness surrounding them feel oddly special, almost sacred, which definitely lent a sense of isolation to the whole scenario even though Arthur could still hear the talk and laughter and the cars rushing by, and somehow (perhaps he was imagining it) could almost make out the gentle lapping of the river, the whisper of the water against the banks. It was a sort of fractured quiet, an urban calm, and Arthur actually found it to be quite soothing.

The surfaces of the benches were still damp from the drizzle but they sat down nonetheless, and because there were no people about and his mood was considerably lightened by the meal and by the nip of wine and by the sight of his city laid out at his feet, Arthur allowed Alfred to press him close to his side, permitted the arm he wrapped around his waist, and even twined their fingers together on his knee, throwing caution to the wind because he really was feeling perfectly content and what paparazzi would follow their trail there, anyhow?

"Not a bad idea, eh?" whispered Alfred, and Arthur realized that they were so close that he could feel his voice thrumming in his throat. Still, he didn't pull away.

"I suppose not," he murmured. "Although, Alfred, we'd hate to forget to give me a little credit for bringing you here - you'd be quite lost without me, I'm afraid."

"In more ways than one," said Alfred teasingly, and Arthur chuckled.

"At least you can admit to it."

They fell silent again, somewhat wrapped around each other and gazing out across the river, Alfred's hand tracing gently along Arthur's hipbone, his cheek rested in his hair, their breathing coming and going in little clouds of steam in the unseasonably cold air, though they themselves were quite comfortably warm, given their heavy clothing and their current position. Arthur wanted to shut his eyes and rest his head on Alfred's shoulder, but his pride protested and instead he merely brushed his thumb rhythmically up and down the backs of their joined hands, sinking into himself in a new sort of way, one that somehow allowed him to be alone yet with another person at the same time, and one that he found he liked quite a good deal.

Eventually he and Alfred glanced at each other, synchronized as though they were following some sort of direction, and Alfred smiled softly, his face cut in two by the light of the city and the shadow of the trees around them, his cheeks and the tip of his nose slightly pink from the cold and his eyes like crystals in the dark. Arthur returned the smile as best he could, and then Alfred said very quietly that he loved him and before he fully realized the situation Arthur found that he had said so right back, and they were both quiet for a moment before Alfred started stammering and Arthur started blushing and they both seemed to decide that it would be wise to keep their mouths closed for a moment so that they could gather their thoughts.

Alfred, very much in accordance with his character, broke the silence first.

"I…well I…" he said wisely; Arthur was still finding it difficult to swallow or breathe, much less speak. "I wasn't…I mean…that just sort of…"

"Slipped out," Arthur finally managed. "Without really warning you, right?"

Alfred nodded, chewing on his lower lip.

"I'm rather in the same boat," said Arthur. "But even so…" he trailed off.

"Maybe…I think that…" Alfred trailed off as well.

"Er, I…but I…"

"I meant it!" Alfred finally said, with a considerable amount of effort, and took in a great gulp of air as if he had been choking on something and had finally managed to cough it up. "I mean, I know we haven't been together very long, but…I, um…I told you before, Arthur," he paused, the color rising in his cheeks. "You make me say things that I wasn't even sure I knew myself. But…once I say them…well, I, uh…I kind of realize that they're true. And…yeah." He fell silent, surveying Arthur nervously, still biting on his lower lip, and it was a moment before Arthur recovered from his surprise enough to recall that Alfred was probably anticipating a similar confession from him.

"I…well…" he stammered. "I..er…" Much to his disgust, he found he was unable to gather the words together and frantically racked his mind for another strategy. "Alfred… you once told me that…" he took a breath in the hopes of steadying himself. "Since I can't always…well, speak my mind, I suppose…you told me that you would translate for me."

Alfred blinked, seeming confused, then nodded.

"Well…I…require your services, so to speak." And without giving Alfred time to reply, Arthur stretched up and kissed him hard, screwing his eyes shut and trying to use his mouth to express himself without words, to tell Alfred that yes, he had meant it as well, he loved him - it had only been a week but he loved him - and although it scared him to death because he had never really been in love before and didn't know where to begin, or worse, where to end, there was little he could do to change it and that was that.

He pulled away and lifted his hands to cup Alfred's face, breathing heavily and using his eyes as a means of imploring him to understand, smiling a little at the sight of his flushed cheeks and still-parted lips despite the fact that he now felt faintly sick, that his pulse was making him dizzy, that he could hear his heartbeat thudding at the backs of his ears.

Finally, Alfred smiled, didn't beam or smirk or moon at him like an idiot but truly smiled, and Arthur could have cried with relief.

"Understood," he breathed, and then he kissed Arthur, running his hands up his back to cradle the back of his head, fingers winding through his hair, surrounding him with the smell of rain and leather and the faint flavor of the coffee and chocolate he had eaten after dinner. They parted, this time both smiling like fools, and Arthur pushed at Alfred's shoulder gently.

"Idiot," he murmured, though it sounded more like an endearment. "You're going to cause a scandal. Imagine if somebody were to see us!"

"But they won't," grinned Alfred, balancing his hands on Arthur's waist. "And you started it, anyhow."

"I daresay not," Arthur snorted. "If you hadn't said that…that…that _thing…"_ he felt himself blush deeper. "…in the first place, none of this would have happened."

"Maybe so," Alfred hummed low in his throat. "I love you, Arthur."

"You fool," answered Arthur in turn, and after another kiss he suggested that they make the journey back to their hotel for a good night's rest, at which Alfred laughed aloud and, running his hands eagerly up and down Arthur's sides, commented that he certainly had one thing on the brain now, didn't he? to which Arthur stuttered that he most certainly had not meant what Alfred was thinking but rather that the next day they would have to start work and they were already very jetlagged and therefore a thorough sleep would be optimal.

Nevertheless, they greeted the hotel bed very eagerly upon their return, and amidst the whispered conversation between the sheets and the mattress and Alfred's gentle moans and Arthur's hushed reassuring answers, always accompanied by a kiss to his cheek or collarbone and a hand run briefly through his hair, across his forehead, soothing him, reminding him of his safety, he found that the three words escaped him again, and though it terrified him that they were indeed true, he also thought that if Alfred could sit through a horror movie with him then it was only right that Arthur take a stab at being in love. And besides, when later on he found himself cocooned in Alfred's embrace between the sheets, his breath coming and going, soft and rhythmic with sleep, against his jugular, he even managed to marvel at this new kind of fear, nauseating and inconstant and thrilling and comforting and steady all in the same heartbeat, and thought that perhaps he could grow accustomed to the feeling.

* * *

><p>UNREALISTIC LOVE CONFESSION FTW.<p>

I know. It's only been a week for them. But…but I…I REALLY WANTED TO HAVE THE LOVE CONFESSION HERE, OKAY?

*embarrassed*

**Francis' French: **_Et surtout, oú est le amour?"__And above all, where is the love ?_

**CBeebies **is the BBC's children's network. And…I have to admit…THOSE SHOWS ARE LIKE CRACK. You know how we all love _Friendship is Magic? _Well, they're kind of addictive like that, except…better. And all the characters have British accents (well, duh. But still, I find that thrilling). Does anyone know if they still show _Big Cook, Little Cook? _BECAUSE THAT WAS THE GREATEST THING EVER. Oh, and there was this absolutely _idiotic _show called…_Brum, _I think, about a car (which makes the sound _brum brum, _thus the name), and this sort of Nickelodeon-style sitcom involving a fox puppet (he is a fox, right?) called _The Basil Brush Show, _and, and…

…someone stop me _right_ now.

Harrods is a fancy department store. High Street Kensington is a street full of fancy department stores.

Thank you all for putting up with my weird compulsion to write +10K words for every chapter. T_T Reviews are so very much loved.

That is all; next chapter we get a fight and flashbacks (alliteration FTW).

Until then! ^^


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight already…I don't even…fanfic goes by so fast, you guys…

Anyways. Thank you so much for all your reviews last chapter; I think this was partially due to the fact that I mentioned British television, but nonetheless it was wonderful to hear from so many of you. I try to reply to every reviewer at least once in the course of their reviewing, but please forgive me if I forget – it doesn't mean I don't have a little spasm of joy when I see that you've commented, haha.

Also, I deleted my tumblr. I'm sorry; I just can't get the grades I need to get, keep writing fanfic, maintain a blog (hey, it takes a surprising amount of devotion), participate in mandatory interactions with family, friends, etcetera, not to mention actually get some _sleep_, all at the same time. So the blog had to go. Anyways, it was fun while it lasted, and I'm still very grateful to all who followed me. ^^

**In Brief: **A fight provokes flashbacks. Alliteration is exciting.

And that's really all I have to say.

Lucky for you guys.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Arthur supposed that it had to happen sometime. It would be rather strange if it didn't, especially considering their personalities, but nevertheless he would be lying if he said that he liked it. He had the right to be angry (and angry he was, or at least extremely exasperated) but he wasn't enjoying the feeling in that peculiar manner in which it could sometimes be enjoyed. Their little collection of previous spats and disagreements paled in comparison; Arthur had shouted at Alfred plenty of times, but that was before they were together, and though he understood very well that established couples had fights and that was fine, nothing to worry about, in fact it probably just meant their relationship was getting along healthily enough, he also found that nobody had told him how much worse things were when you really loved the person and sort of wanted to run back into their arms right away but found that you were far to angry and prideful to do so and so you were left to haunt the streets of your old city, fixing the sidewalks with glares because really , it was all his fault, entirely, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it <em>his fault, <em>the bloody overgrown child, but what can you do now that you've stormed off except wait for him to come running after you, overflowing with apologies and with his arms spread wide, and then pretend that you weren't hoping for exactly that all along?

Arthur had no answer and this only worsened his mood. His destination of choice was simply _away, _away for a moment, a breather, or enough time for Alfred to admit to his mistake and compose a sufficient apology. The air was cold, but at least the insistent rain had relented for the moment, the sky merely a trembling mass of clouds that threatened to break but obviously weren't quite ready yet. Eventually Arthur realized that the haphazard route he had taken from the site where they had wrapped up filming had carried him to a part of London that he knew quite well; in fact, likely too well, he considered dryly as he began to be able to place moments and memories and faces to every corner and alleyway and line in the sidewalk and remembered all the little signs that told him that the old boarding school wasn't far off.

Fortunately, neither was the Tate, which Arthur found much more agreeable than whispering around some old place that he had never liked particularly much from the beginning. He made it into the museum before the rain broke, checked his coat, and set off to peruse the galleries for however long it might take his anger to cool to a point where he could be reasonable again. He sat down on one of the couches in a classic exhibit that he particularly liked and made himself comfortable; there was no point in rushing, after all.

He tried to focus on the paintings and sculptures but found that his mind insisted on returning to the fact that their argument had been a silly one, really, and that it shouldn't have been allowed to escalate to such an extent, and that Alfred was and always would be the biggest fool and the most enormous child he had ever encountered.

It was their penultimate day in the city and they had wrapped up filming that afternoon, meaning that Alfred was immensely pleased with himself and sidled over to Arthur to ask him for a congratulatory kiss. Of course Arthur refused, reminding Alfred that they were in public, after all, to which Alfred replied that nobody was around, only Francis and Elizaveta and the generally inattentive film crew. Arthur said that they were in the middle of the street and people were very much around; Alfred insisted, Arthur avoided him for a while until he began to get really exasperated, then the game continued a few rounds more, then Arthur tried to put it to a halt, then they argued a bit while they walked down the street with Francis and Elizaveta, Alfred complaining loudly about what a tightass Arthur was, etcetera, etcetera, and though Arthur ignored him the remarks began to smart a little bit, and then he grew so disgruntled that when Alfred added onto the end of his monologue, in full hearing range of Francis and Elizaveta, that he loved him, he completely lost it and fell stone silent for the rest of the way to the hotel, disregarding Francis' snickering and Elizaveta's poorly concealed squealing and Alfred's obviously wounded expression, meaning that when they closed the door to their room they ended up shouting at each other and Arthur rushed away because he had never fought with someone he loved (or at least not like he loved Alfred), and though he knew it wasn't an enormous deal and would almost definitely be resolved, it still made him feel furious and ill and sad at the same time and, in addition to being absolutely livid, he just couldn't bear to look at Alfred and see those same feelings reflected in his expression and know that he was causing them.

Arthur gazed rather vacantly at the painting before him; he recognized it from countless field trips to the museum and even thought he might have written an essay on it at one point. In fact, when he glanced down the gallery, a deluge of memories came back to him, and he gave a little half smile because he was rather fond of those old times, despite the trouble that had brought them to him in the first place.

_The academy was exclusive, all of them been cooped up together since preschool, and the student body was tiny and very much engrossed in itself, therefore everyone knew far too much about everybody and news traveled almost faster than the girls could catch behind the hands they lifted to their mouths to whisper or giggle or scorn. _

_For instance, Arthur had sat next to Katyusha for as long as he could remember, and in addition to knowing an unsettling number of details about her life, he also knew that up until they were ten years old she had been considered a nice girl, if not a little sensitive and prone to tears. However, at sixteen, she could only delude herself into thinking that she was still perceived as such by her peers: ever since she had hit puberty (at least two years earlier than most of the other girls) and had forgotten to wear a bra to gym class that one time – one time! Arthur might add, one time and the entirety of her social career (whatever that entailed, exactly) was ruined – she had been quietly lauded as an enormous whore, though she herself was, for the most part, protected from this knowledge by her intimidating elder brother. Even so, Arthur reckoned that Katyusha had an inkling as to her reputation, and although he felt sorry for her, there was little he could do, and besides, it wasn't as though she were a lone victim of this scrutiny – they all were, each and every one of them, which only served to worsen the overall situation. _

_Even so, Arthur reckoned that he had a relatively easy time of it. This was probably because he was quiet and studious and rarely did anything interesting at all. He didn't have many friends, not enough to provoke any interest at least, and he wasn't terribly outspoken or quirky, although he had never quite been able to live down an incident on the playground when he had forgotten himself and conducted an audience with his imaginary friends in the middle of a circle of his peers, who, despite having been merely six years old at the time, never seemed to have quite let go of the memory. This aside, Arthur had never generated the whispers that cluttered the desks and the lockers and rustled in between the pleats of the girl's skirts and the clack of their heeled Mary-Jane shoes against the tile of the hallways. _

_So when Arthur finally realized that the reason why he never seemed to find Katyusha's assets as impressive as his peers did was because he was generally too busy admiring the jaw (strong and square and on some mornings dusted with stubble that looked like brown sugar) of the boy who sat in front of him, he was torn between feeling thrilled that he finally had something that would cause an uproar and being terrified of what would follow. He could already hear the girls losing interest in his sexuality after a few months, once a new subject had presented itself, but he worried about what the other boys would think, if they would find him disgusting or stop talking to him or make crude jokes behind his back or pretend to offer him their cocks in the locker room only to warn each other not to bend down in the shower when Arthur Kirkland is nearby, and not to shake hands with him either, because that's how diseases are spread, after all._

_(Well, perhaps the students in Arthur's school were a little too well-educated to fall prey to that particular superstition, but nonetheless Arthur couldn't imagine that his discovery would be terribly well received, and therefore, after a week of debate, decided to keep his sexuality a secret for the time being.)_

_This went very well for him until he began to realize that, now that he knew why he couldn't jack off to the magazines his classmates smuggled into the locker rooms, he began to wonder what would do the same thing for him. Up until then, Arthur had lived a life entirely devoid of lust, solely because he hadn't been able to recognize the feeling when he felt it, hadn't been able to associate the little thrill down his spine when he saw strong square lines of jaws and arms, the curling of his toes when he caught glimpses of the downy hair that had begun to run along the chests and stomachs of his classmates, the thud of his heart when another boy leaned in close to him to ask him for the answer or if he understood what the teacher was saying, with the feelings he was supposed to get when he look at Katyusha's enormous breasts as they nearly spilt from her blouse. Now that Arthur knew, however, now that he understood all these things, he found that he reacted to them, that he blushed and jumped and had begun to wake up in uncomfortable states more often than not. It embarrassed him, he felt he had become some sort of tittering schoolgirl, melting at the briefest glimpse of an unshaven face or a powerful chest, and his peers had begun to tune into his discomfort, though he knew that they couldn't yet place a name to that little strange feeling they were surely getting from him. _

_And so, Arthur discovered that, despite all the trouble he had always had with expressing himself, he truly loathed harboring this particular secret. Not only did it eat away at him, keeping him up and night tossing and turning and debating with himself over and over again, should I or shouldn't I? but he also couldn't help but to wonder if there were any other boys in his school who were the same, and, if he revealed himself, would they come out, too? And if that were to happen, could he…could he…well, could they be like some of the other couples, could they hold hands and kiss and go out and break up and cry over each other and eventually heal and find someone new? The idea was exciting, but failure was such a likely risk, and Arthur had always been a cautious child._

_So of course it was an accident. Arthur had never been this type of boy, never, he was always good and obedient, but the day before his mother had commented that she was looking forwards to the day that he got himself a nice girl, and so when he overheard his classmates talking about a party that they had planned for the upcoming weekend, he summoned up his courage and asked if he could come along. They all looked surprised, but again, Arthur Kirkland had never done anything interesting enough to arouse their disdain, so eventually they smiled and said that of course he could, it was going to be wild. _

_So he lied to his parents, got a ride with a gaggle of kids he vaguely knew, and proceeded to get roaring drunk, climb up onto a table, invite the boy with the brown-sugar stubble to join him, and finally kiss him square on the mouth with an embarrassing degree of sloppiness, both because he was so drunk he could barely stand and because he had never kissed anyone before and didn't really know what to do with his lips or his tongue or his teeth._

_The background music must have continued playing, but at the time Arthur fancied the room fell entirely silent. He was so drunk he didn't even register what he had done, merely broadcasted his sexuality to the entire room and then vomited spectacularly off to the side as his grand finale._

_On Monday, when somebody inquired as to whether he was a faggot or not, Arthur tried his best to answer primly, then returned to devising new strategies that would help him sink into the wallpaper. He wasn't bullied, per se, more of ignored by everyone except for his very closest friends – but even they had suddenly cooled, and seemed to be more occupied with schoolwork and other obligations than they had ever been before. Worse still, Arthur was obliged to tell his family, and then things really fell apart – his parents couldn't comprehend that there was a part of their son that went beyond their knowledge, beyond their capability to ever really know, and so his mother insisted that it was merely a phase while his father opted to ignore Arthur's announcement entirely._

_On the last day of the school year, after Arthur had already been told that he would be attending a prestigious international boarding school in London, Katyusha walked up to him, straight up to the boy whose life she had shared a part of for more than a decade, and slapped him across the face. Arthur blinked, lifted his hand gingerly to touch his stinging cheek, and saw that there were tears in her eyes. _

"_What was that for?" he asked, with no real anger, just surprise. _

_Katyusha bit down on her lower lip, the tears spilled over, and her massive breasts thundered with the force of her sob. _

"_How could you!" she cried, pointing a finger accusingly at him. "You were the only boy who never looked at these!" Even Arthur's eyes widened when she unabashedly cupped her hands beneath her chest for emphasis. "I thought you were special, but it just turns out you're just a fag!" She wiped at her eyes. "I hate you for this. I'll never forgive you." Another sob. "You're just lucky I told my brother not to kill you!" She paused, slapped Arthur again, and then was suddenly hugging him tightly, the pressure of her breasts threatening to crack his ribcage. _

"_I'll miss you, Arthur," she whispered. "You'll be alright, won't you?" _

_Arthur hesitated, both his cheeks smarting now, and then tentatively patted her waist, not missing how his fellow male classmates' eyes widened with envy. He smirked, just a little. How ironic. _

"_Sure, Katyusha," he told her. "You too."_

_Katyusha gave him a watery smile, seeming reassured, and he hadn't the heart to tell her that he didn't really know._

* * *

><p>If only Alfred knew the streets of London better. Then, perhaps, he could try to guess where Arthur might head off to, rather than just blindly panning through the city, sticking his head into every window and door and nook and cranny that he could, hoping to catch a glimpse of pale blonde hair or furrowed eyebrows or that venomous green glare that seemed designed especially for him.<p>

Honestly, Arthur was so temperamental sometimes, almost like a woman - but even so, if Alfred hadn't understood why Arthur was upset with him in the first place, he wouldn't be breaking his back combing through the streets of London in the hopes of finding him. It had started to rain again, heavier than before, and Alfred's glasses were fogged and his hair stuck to his forehead in places. He dropped into a convenience store to purchase a little umbrella and ended up getting it for free when he agreed to sign an autograph for the cashier. He finished the final stroke of his sloppy signature, somehow mustered a winning smile for her, told her that he and Elizaveta was doing just fine, thank you very much (the irony of this didn't slip past him), and continued on his way, traveling from museum to bookstores to coffee shops and back to museums, hoping he could find Arthur lost between the shelves or paintings or tables, because that seemed like a very Arthur sort of thing to do.

Every so often, a camera would flash at Alfred's back, and he realized that soon, the tabloids would be whispering about how he had been photographed alone, stalking through the rain with an unhappy expression on his face – a sure sign of trouble in paradise – and they would all start to spread rumors about his and Elizaveta's failing relationship, etcetera. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing; being able to reassure the press about their love, or better still, to stage a reconciliation, could only encourage the hysteria surrounding their relationship, but nonetheless Alfred found this rather irritating, seeing as he wasn't looking to pretend to make up with Elizaveta – he was looking to really make up with Arthur, and he was surprised to realize how fiercely possessive he felt about the whole thing. Nobody else should intrude upon their apologies (or whatever it was going to take to patch up their fight), let alone hungry paparazzi - once he had been forgiven, Alfred wanted to be able to smile at and kiss Arthur, to say aloud that he loved him and hear it said right back. He wasn't much in the mood for hiding at the moment, but there was little he could do; if other people were there, Arthur wouldn't lay a finger on him, and, all things considered, this was probably for the best. Elizaveta would be livid if they broke their cover now, so close to the end of the filming of _Keep Dreaming, America, _and the last thing Alfred wanted was to bring her wrath upon himself.

So he merely sighed, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and kept walking, stepping into a crosswalk only to be interrupted by a gaggle of school-aged boys in uniform, books tucked under their arms, part of a river of students that streamed from the mouth of an enormous red brick building across the street. Alfred squinted, realized it was some sort of school, glanced at the students again (they seemed to be positively endless), smiled at a stunned group of schoolgirls who recognized his face, and kindly asked them if they could tell him the name of their school. They answered him between blushes and whispers, and he thanked them with another grin, his suspicions confirmed: he faintly recognized the title of the establishment, meaning that it must be Arthur's old boarding school.

He doubted Arthur would be inside, but nonetheless strolled up to the steps which opened onto the street, taking in the powerful brick façade, the little gargoyles curving over the edges of the windowsills, the little bits of Latin that were carved into the stone in places, and smiled because the place positively reeked of Arthur before he glanced behind himself at the retreating backs of the students, Alfred could very easily imagine Arthur arriving there, his new blazer stiff and awkward, the collar probably biting into his neck, bags in hand, soon to be kissed goodbye by distracted parents and left on the grand staircase only to be swept away by two foreign students and their dreams of America.

_The weather was too warm for autumn, London was too crowded, the dormitory was too small, the roommate had yet to appear, his mother's hands were cold when they stroked at his cheek, and the collar of his uniform was absolutely dreadful, bursting with starch and slowly rubbing a thick band of red into his neck that Arthur was sure would take days to disappear._

_Even so, as he watched his parents' car retreat down the road, and when he finally saw their taillights disappear around the corner, Arthur smiled to know that this was the last he would see of them and their excruciating intellectualism for a long while, perhaps forever, if everything turned out alright. This relief, however, was short-lived; when Arthur turned back towards the school and gazed up at the imposing brick façade with neither his mother tittering at his shoulder nor his father's gruff silence from behind , he realized that he was just a boy from the English countryside who had particularly good test scores and the misfortune to have announced his homosexuality in a rather backwards fashion (not to mention into a rather backwards family), a boy who only knew London as a place for weekend holidays, not as a lifestyle, a boy who certainly didn't understand these strange new foreign children that he found in the classrooms and the library and in his own dormitory. _

_When he stepped into the dining hall for the first time, he felt a rather undignified sense of terror, and scanned the room for a seat on the end of a table, where he could read his book and go generally unnoticed by everyone. His eyes landed on a promising spot and he sat down, drawing his plate towards himself and eating disinterestedly as he flipped through his exhausted copy of _A Brief History of Modern Film, _only looking up in surprise when he heard chairs scraping around him and realized that he had been joined by two other students, a boy with thin blonde hair that touched his shoulders and hung around his hazy blue eyes, and a girl who Arthur realized must be considered very beautiful, tall and strong-boned and olive-skinned, with large green eyes and heavy hair that fell to her breasts._

"Bonjour," _drawled the boy, and Arthur felt his stomach give a turn; that accent was positively nauseating. "I am Francis Bonnefoy. Who are you?" _

_Arthur blinked. Francis waited for a moment, gazing steadily at him, then shrugged and glanced towards the girl, who introduced herself as Elizaveta and repeated Francis' inquiry as to Arthur's identity. _

"_Arthur Kirkland," managed Arthur this time around. "Why are you sitting here?" He realized too late how rude he sounded and blushed; however, Elizaveta and Francis merely laughed. _

"_Your book," answered Francis with a smile that was closer to a leer. "Are you a fan of _le cinema?"

"_Not when you say it like that," said Arthur frankly, and before he could catch himself: "but I'm the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen." _

"_My, cocky, aren't we?" commented Elizaveta with a raise of her brow. _

"_Not really," Arthur shrugged. "I simply __**am **__the greatest."_

"_Well then," chucked Francis in a way that Arthur thought was appreciatively. "Utilizing your particular turn of phrase…I am the greatest director the world has ever seen." _

"_And I," grinned Elizaveta. "The greatest actress." _

"_You still haven't explained why you're here," said Arthur after they were quiet for a moment. _

"_Mutual interest," replied Francis. _

"_Birds of a feather flock together," winked Elizaveta. _

"_Are you gay?" asked Francis with no warning whatsoever, as though he were commenting on the weather or complimenting someone on their shoes, and when Arthur dropped his fork onto his plate with a little clatter, he and Elizaveta nodded sagely. _

"_I could practically smell it off him," she said matter-of-factly. _

"_You never fail, my dear," murmured Francis, his grin widening as Arthur spluttered and blushed and tried to form something that roughly resembled a denial, though he only ended up weakly inquiring as to whether Francis and Elizaveta were also...that way, he chose to say, though he was upset at himself for his own cowardice. _

"_I myself love all things beautiful, gender simply does not factor into the equation," Francis sighed, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "Elizaveta is straight, but she has some strange fetishes, to put it lightly." At this, Elizaveta nodded unabashedly, a dangerous little smile pulling at her lips. Arthur swallowed. _

"_I still don't understand - "_

"_Why we're here?" Elizaveta's smile warmed. "We're going to be friends. If you're really the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen, that is." _

_Arthur blinked. "I am." _

_Francis chuckled. "Well then, it's settled. Do you have anything to show us?" _

_Arthur finally shut his book entirely, tilting his head to the side confusedly. "Anything..?" _

_Francis let out an impatient little huff. "__**Scripts, **__Arthur. Are you worth your salt or aren't you?" _

"_Am I…" Arthur paused. "Of course I have scripts. Who do you think I am?" _

"_With you right now?"_

"_In my dormitory. I most certainly wouldn't leave them behind." _Arthur arched a brow challengingly._ "Do you have any footage? A tape? Do you even own a video camera?" _

_Francis smirked and put a hand on his shoulder; Arthur cringed noticeably and Francis laughed aloud. _

"_Oh, we three are going to get along fabulously, Arthur Kirkland, or otherwise known as the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen." _

_Arthur rolled his eyes. _

"_Oh yes, Francis Bonnefoy, greatest director the world has ever seen," he nodded to Elizaveta. "And Elizaveta, the greatest actress," he smirked and picked up his fork. "We'll get along fantastically; I'm positively sure of it."_

* * *

><p><em>Arthur gasped and bit down on his lower lip, pulling his hips back again and thrusting forwards with doubled force, fingers digging into the rough cotton of his sheets, the stale air of his dormitory room clogging his nose and mouth and mind. He had long since passed beyond the point where he bothered to pay the slightest attention to Francis' feelings, either physical or emotional, instead forcing him only deeper into the mattress, the springs screaming and the wood groaning beneath their combined weight as Francis threw back his head and moaned some garbled form of Arthur's name, hands scrabbling down his spine, shins brushing his trembling waist. <em>

"_Fuck…" hissed Arthur, maneuvering his hips in a halfhearted effort at trying to resume some form of rhythm between them, however sloppily. "Try not to…scream so much, would you? My roommate will hear us." _

_Francis merely moaned and tried to lean forwards and kiss him; Arthur turned his face and he landed at his neck, laving his tongue in his clavicle. Arthur shivered, whether from arousal or disgust or some combination of both he wasn't sure, and drew back again, this time finally meriting a little whimper of pain from Francis before he sighed again, his hair clinging to his face with sweat, and arched against him, nails digging into his hips, coming with a groan of defeat. Arthur licked his lips in satisfaction and picked up his already hurried pace, bringing himself crisply to his own finish before he pulled out and sat on the bed beside Francis, who was still splayed across the pillows, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath. _

"_And to think, _mon cher," _Francis groaned when he was able. "Not several months ago you were a nervous virgin who had only just left the closet." He smiled wryly, obviously for his own benefit. "How ironic." _

_Arthur smirked. "At least you have something other than your hand to help you now." _

_Francis chuckled, pushing the sweaty hair from his forehead. "_Vrai."

"_Don't use that language around me," Arthur spat. "It's vile enough as it is." _

"_I refuse to argue this point with you today," sighed Francis, melodramatically casting his forearm over his eyes. _

"_Only because I've worn you out." There was barely the ghost of a sweat on Arthur's brow and he was already recovered from his orgasm, rising, businesslike, from the bed to put on some old clothes before he took a trip to the showers. Francis merely watched him, his hair stringy with sweat and falling across his face when he turned. _

"_Again," he murmured. "Our situation is almost painfully ironic." _

"_Shut up," said Arthur, tugging himself into his trousers. "It doesn't mean anything." _

_Francis let out a little bark of a laugh, finally sitting up and making an effort to find his own clothes. _

"_Believe me, I know…" He grimaced when he stood and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him bemusedly. Francis rolled his eyes and set to buttoning up his fine silk uniform shirt. For a while they worked in silence, Arthur eventually transitioning to straightening the sheets and carefully concealing any trace of their sex, tucking the lubricant and the condom wrappers safely away in the desk drawer into which he knew nobody ever ventured. When he stood from the desk, Francis was securing his tie at his throat with a pensive expression on his face, and Arthur swallowed, uncomfortably struck by the reality of their situation. _

"_Francis," he said quietly, not daring to look at him. "We're best friends." _

_He didn't need to look up to know that Francis was giving him a very quizzical look. _

"_That we are," he said eventually. _

_Arthur bit down on his lower lip. _

"_And…I don't love you. At all. I just like to fuck you," he paused. "But…I'm curious…have you ever…I mean…"_

"_Been with someone I loved?"_

_Arthur nodded. Francis took a step forwards, fixing him with an unusually solemn and concerned expression, but still the look in his eyes belonged to a friend, not a lover – there was nothing between them, there never would be and Arthur preferred it that way, but nevertheless, he couldn't help but wonder sometimes. _

"_Perhaps," said Francis finally. "I do not know for sure. Those things can be…hard to tell. But I think…" he sighed. "Something tells me that you will know, Arthur."_

* * *

><p><em>Arthur met Kiku in the winter of his second year at the <em>_school, during the holidays, when everyone had gone home to their families except for himself and the small dark-haired boy he noticed eating quietly alone in the dining hall one morning, reading some sort of glossy magazine that he closed quickly and nervously when Arthur ventured towards him, his tray balanced in one hand, eyebrow raised._

"_And I thought I was the only one," was all he said. Perhaps he should have felt lonely and dejected, never going home for the holidays like the others, but he had always appreciated the solitude left in their absence, with only his crisp footsteps echoing down the shining old hallways, the dormitories quiet except for the come and go of his own breathing and the rustle of the pages as he turned through book after book, then perhaps later the sharp sounds of his typewriter at work on his latest project, soon to be approved by Francis with minimal bitching and adapted splendidly by Elizaveta. Nonetheless, Arthur fancied it would be nice to share the silence with someone, and casually slid his tray into the space across from the boy, who jumped again, tucked his magazine somewhere below the table, and stiffly introduced himself, bobbing his head up and down nervously all the while, heavy-cut black bangs shifting in front of his face and helping him to avoid Arthur's gaze. _

"_Christ, mate," Arthur said, holding out his hand even as he wondered if associating himself with this boy was such a good decision after all. "Relax. I won't bite. I just thought, seeing as we're the only people here and all, we might as well make the most of it." _

_The boy glanced at him uneasily but eventually took his hand. _

"_My name is Kiku Honda," he said. "I am honored to make your acquaintance." _

_Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Same here." _

_After a few days, Kiku had calmed enough to laugh softly and even joke, though he and Arthur didn't speak much, generally preferring quiet enjoyed in each other's company over conversation. Together they must have made their way through half the library, holed up for hours among teetering stacks of books, and when they tired of reading Arthur would wear calluses into his fingers on his typewriter and Kiku would draw, graceful figures executed with slender strokes – mostly mannequins and designs; ironically, he wanted to be a costume designer for film and drama. _

_Kiku couldn't go home for the holidays because his family lived in Japan; it was nearly Christmas before Arthur gathered the courage to tell him that he was gay and therefore preferred to not go home at all. Kiku didn't mind, merely smiled and told him not to worry, but over the next few days Arthur caught him giving him a few curious looks, sideways from beneath his heavy dark fringe of hair, almost guiltily. At first Arthur ignored these, choosing to award his friend the benefit of the doubt, but when they were in his dormitory one night, reading and talking, and he caught the expression again, he finally confronted Kiku about it, unable to keep the edge of hostility from his tone. Kiku blinked, evaded the question, struggled to be polite, and then finally thrust himself towards Arthur and kissed him. After nothing more than an instant of this, Arthur realized that Kiku had never kissed another boy (if anyone at all), because his hands seemed to be lost and his eyes were scrunched tight and his lips were forced and clumsy and their teeth clacked together at one point. When Kiku pulled away, panting, lips wet, face flushed and confused, Arthur merely wiped his mouth and knew that, on the night he came out, he must have kissed the boy with the brown sugar stubble in the exact same way. _

"_Kiku," he said simply, and Kiku stumbled away as if the syllable had knocked his knees from under him. "What was -"_

_And suddenly Kiku had lurched back across the room and was on him again, and though his finesse was in no way improved at least Arthur was expecting it and could maneuver the kiss, gain some control, fingers digging into Kiku's shoulder to balance him. He broke away with a gasp and gazed down bewilderedly at an obviously confused and panicked and aroused Kiku._

"_Kiku…what do you…" Arthur felt his stomach lurch with pity, understanding without fully knowing the situation. "What do you want?" he added quietly. _

"_I don't…" Kiku's voice seemed to tear as it struggled from his lips. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry."_

_Arthur sighed. "Don't be. I'll…we can…if you want to…" he paused. "I know how to do it." _

_Kiku stiffened in his grasp for a moment, the fear visible across his face, and then swallowed. _

"_I want…I want to try," he paused. "If it's alright with you, that is, Arthur-san." _

_Arthur nodded and abruptly thrust his mouth onto Kiku's again, not waiting to guide him over to the bed and shove him into the mattress, fingers deftly unwinding his tie and running to his buttons. Kiku gasped and bucked confusedly, hands tangling into Arthur's sweater vest and then unfolding from the fabric again in a strange sort of rhythm, not even bothering to try and meet his mouth, merely allowing him to travel up and down his body, lifting his hips obediently when Arthur tugged at his waistband and lying still across the sheets when he left to shed his own clothing, his chest heaving. _

"_You're a virgin," Arthur said, not asked, but nonetheless Kiku nodded, the color in his cheeks heightening further. Arthur sighed and retrieved the lubricant and a condom. _

"_This is going to hurt at first," he warned. "And there's something I have to find before it gets better, so bear with me, alright?"_

_Arthur saw the same panic glint through Kiku's eyes again before he nodded, and had he been a little wiser he would have understood that it was better that they stop there. However, at that moment his only preoccupation was Francis, and since he knew he would only get congratulations for scoring while his usual partner was away on that front, he dismissed the uneasy sensation in the back of his throat and continued, trying to ignore Kiku's stunned gasps and moans and the scrabbling of his fingernails against his back. Arthur found that he couldn't bear to look at him while he was carrying out the necessary preparations, instead focusing on finding some form of rhythm and tuning out the occasionally whimpers of pain, smiling with satisfaction as they gradually eased into sighs and soft encouragements. _

_Soon, Arthur decided that he had given the situation long enough, and hovered above Kiku, in between his legs, spreading his thighs and hooking his knees over his shoulders, heels biting into the blades of his back. He was very pale even though his face was flushed, and his eyes shone with arousal and leftover tears of pain, shivering along his eyelashes. Arthur swallowed and began, gasping at first, because Francis was experienced and never this tight, before he recovered himself and set to work establishing a pace, a pulse to their movements, because Kiku was entirely lost, hips jutting back and forth erratically, almost choking over his frantic breathing, hands pawing blindly up and down Arthur's back and shoulders, occasionally gripping hard enough to leave little white fingerprint marks. He didn't last very long, and at the end merely sort of crumpled beneath Arthur, chest heaving, turning his face to the side against the pillows, the dark fringe of hair, sticky with sweat, falling across his forehead and obscuring his half-lidded eyes. He allowed Arthur to bring himself to completion, only looking at him when he had pulled out and was sitting on the bed beside him, a little sleepy but otherwise not particularly exerted._

"_Kiku…" Arthur said eventually, staring at his palms. "Are you…are you gay?" _

_Kiku flinched. _

"_I don't…" his voice was hoarse. "I don't…know." _

_Arthur sighed both exasperatedly and sympathetically. _

"_I suppose that's alright," he decided. "Do you want to keep fucking?" _

_Kiku was quiet for a long time. _

"_Yes," he whispered finally. "But not…" _

_Arthur chuckled sadly. "Not after the other students are back, eh?" _

_Kiku nodded, his lips forming a line, thin and pinched with shame. _

"_It's alright, y'know, mate." Arthur smiled; he hoped it seemed reassuring, that was how he meant it to be. "Especially if you're not sure about your own bloody sexuality. Don't worry about my feelings. For me, this fuck is just…" he paused. "Well, exactly that. A fuck. Hell, I've been fucking Francis for almost as long as I've known him." _

_At this, Kiku's eyes grew wide. _

"_But, Arthur-san, I didn't think you even liked him!" _

_Arthur threw his head back and laughed. _

"_That's just the thing; I __**don't **__really like him. Well…I guess…look, he's my best mate, but nonetheless, I don't really __**like **__him per se…the point is, he's a damn good fuck, and we like our relationship that way. So really," he gestured vaguely at the crumpled sheets and their disheveled clothing; Arthur hadn't even bothered to take off his trousers all the way and still they hung around his ankles. "Don't worry about it." _

_Kiku swallowed, was quiet for a moment, and then finally murmured, _

"_But it's not you I'm worried for, Arthur-san."_

_[As promised, Arthur and Kiku had kept fucking until the other students returned, then, according to their plan, they became nothing more than quiet friends again, studying and reading together, sometimes even working on scripts or costume designs when they weren't busy with class or when Arthur wasn't otherwise occupied with Francis and Elizaveta. Still, as Arthur grew to know Kiku better and better, the more he realized just how unhappy he was, the better he thought he knew the answer to his problems, and the better he thought he understood why Kiku would never accept that solution. _

"_Kiku," Arthur had said one night as they were studying for their final exams, the end of the term scarcely more than a week away. "Can I ask you something?"_

"_Of course, Arthur-san," replied Kiku, not looking up from his textbook. Arthur hesitated, then shut his notebook with a gentle clap. _

"_How do you see the world?"_

_At this, Kiku lifted his head, his bangs shifting across his forehead. _

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Just…in general." _

_Kiku was quiet, and then he smiled was must have been the saddest smile Arthur had ever seen. _

"_Isolated," he whispered, and returned to his book.]_

* * *

><p>Arthur wasn't sure why this memory struck him so forcibly as he drained the dregs of his tea and stood up from the table in the museum café, paying and heading back towards the galleries; perhaps it was because he was alone, and because he was still unsure of how he was going to end up back in his hotel room if Alfred didn't even know where to look for him, let alone where to find him.<p>

He entered a room full of paintings from the colonial era and floated idly from one to the other, gazing somewhat blankly at the depictions of grandeur and fantastic ocean voyages and farms painted against backgrounds of wheat glowing gold beneath huge yellow suns. He checked his watch; the afternoon was growing late. Sometimes Arthur truly hated his pride.

Then he heard it: not far away, someone was arguing with the coat check girl, asking her if they could just please have a brief look at all the different jackets and umbrellas and such – they were looking for something specific and they really needed to see if it was there or not. The girl protested, there was a small bout of silence, a little squeal, a chuckle, and then that voice raised again – by now there was no doubt about it – promising his autograph if he could just have one tiny little peek at those coats.

Arthur sighed; how ridiculous. Only Alfred would think he could be sure of Arthur's presence by rifling through strangers' coats. Nevertheless, Arthur found himself slowly inching towards the closet, stopping at the first painting at the entrance of the gallery so that, when Alfred came out, he would see him there, idly enjoying the artwork and certainly not concerned with anything or anyone else. He took one tiny peek over the doorframe and caught the glimpse of brown bomber jacket; satisfied, he returned to his carefully crafted façade of indifference, even managing to appear surprised when Alfred emerged from the closet and turned to see him, jumping back in shock and actually pointing as he did so.

"A-Arthur!" he cried. Arthur rolled his eyes, lifting a finger to his lips to shush him.

"We're in a museum, fool," he hissed. "Why are you here, anyways?"

Alfred blinked. His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead in places, and his glasses were fogged, obscuring Arthur's view of his eyes (irritatingly enough). There was a pinkness about his cheeks and the tip of his nose that had obviously been worn in by the cold and wind. He wrung his hands together nervously in front of him.

"I…well, I…"

Arthur frowned. "You?"

"Well," Alfred hesitated, then took a step forwards into the gallery, joining Arthur in front of the painting. "I guess I came to apologize?"

Arthur arched an eyebrow and Alfred swallowed visibly.

"I know…" To his credit, Alfred kept his voice at a whisper. "…that what I did wasn't okay, and that it wasn't…it wasn't cool of me to ask that of you…in public, and in front of Francis and Elizaveta. I guess I was joking, but…well, it got out of hand. I never…meant to embarrass you or put you on the spot, or anything like that. I know how you are about those sorts of things…feelings and stuff…and…I also know that it hasn't been easy for you, watching me and Elizaveta, even if it's all a joke, and…well, I'm sorry, and I hope you accept my apology." He glanced cautiously up at Arthur from beneath the panes of his glasses. "But even so, Arthur…you…I guess…hurt my feelings, too. I mean…I know you have trouble with expressing yourself…but…"

He glanced at Arthur again, bit down on his lower lip, and seemed to decide to charge forth.

"I really do…" His voice slipped below a whisper. "I love you, Arthur. And…you didn't…I mean…you can understand why I'm upset, right?" He looked up at him pleadingly. "I know we have to keep this under wraps for the sake of publicity and the budget and stuff, but…you could have just…you could have just _said _it, you know, at least once we were back in the hotel room or something, although, well, I guess you _were _really mad by then, but anyways, I got all…I got all angry too, because you…again, you didn't…" he trailed off, still twisting his fingers miserably in front of him. "I guess what I'm trying to say is we're both to blame for this. And...you owe me an apology as well, and...I won't...you...you just have to, alright, because I really can't forgive you if you don't, and I kind of...well, I'm ready for this to be over, y'know. I don't like fighting with you. At all. So, please. Fair is fair."

Arthur sighed, turned from the painting to face Alfred, and finally smiled, even if only very slightly.

"I accept your apology, you idiot," he murmured. "And…I suppose…I guess…"

"I'm not translating for you this time," warned Alfred. Arthur blushed and glared at him.

"Well, I'm certainly not sorry anymore, not after that remark, at least. You obviously deserved what you got." Arthur lightened this statement with an exaggerated huff, turning his nose into the air but smirking sideways at Alfred as he did so. "I am sorry, Alfred," he added more seriously. "And I…" he glanced around them, made sure the coat check girl was otherwise engaged, then stood on his tiptoes and kissed Alfred briefly on the mouth. He tasted like rain; Arthur pulled back immediately and licked his lips, smiling faintly. "Well, that expresses it."

_Graduation was surreal. To Arthur it seemed like hardly any time had passed at all since he was the nervous boy who was approached in the dining hall by the two people who would become the greatest friends he would ever have, and yet, there they stood, all dolled up in caps and gowns with their diplomas in hand, looking rather dazed and confused, but very happy. And later, when they had driven away and were sitting parked in Elizaveta's car with beers and the stereo turned up loud and their diplomas thrown into the backseat, Arthur looked out into the sunset and saw a daunting world but found that he couldn't quite bring himself to be afraid, not yet, not when he was surrounded by friends and had the faint buzz of alcohol in his veins. _

"_What should we do now?" said Elizaveta finally, her cheek rested of Arthur's shoulder, watching as dusk slowly began to press down the horizon. Arthur chuckled, perhaps a little hysterically. _

"_I don't…I don't know."_

"_Nonezeless, let's get ze 'ell out of 'ere, non?" leered Francis, leaning his hand on his chin, his accent made thicker as a result of the alcohol and the leftover nerves from the ceremony. Arthur laughed appreciatively. _

"_For once I agree with you." _

_Elizaveta nodded, but furrowed her brows. _

"_That's all well and good, boys…but __**where**__?" _

_And the name slipped from Arthur's lips before he could stop it. _

"_America." _

_Francis and Elizaveta sat up to look up him curiously; Arthur shrugged. _

"_So what if it's going to hell; it would at least be fresher than here. And I mean, I've sort of..." he hesitated, and then a thought he had been keeping for a while spilled from his lips. "…I've got an idea for a script, and…I need someone…I need…I need an Alfred. My hero's name is Alfred, and I need an American; he simply can't be played by anyone else. And so…" he paused, not daring to look at Francis and Elizaveta. "America?" _

_For a moment he thought they would laugh at him, but then Francis was bobbing his head slowly and Elizaveta was beginning to smile. _

"_America," murmured Francis, tapping his chin pensively. _

_Elizaveta took a swig from her beer. "America."_

_Arthur smiled tentatively. "America?"_

"Arthur," Alfred murmured against his throat, a hand slipping from his waist to travel upwards and tangle their fingers together. "You still haven't answered my question."

Arthur tilted his head back with a sigh, pulling Alfred's tie from around his neck and tossing somewhere behind them. "Mm?" he murmured absentmindedly. "What question is that?"

Alfred pressed his mouth to his chin. "Your script. How it perceives the world. Got an answer?"

"Oh, Alfred," Arthur set to work on the buttons of his shirt. "Must we talk about this now?"

Alfred grinned, running his mouth up beneath Arthur's jawbone, towards the soft skin at the beginning of his neck. "You betcha." When Arthur sighed, he pulled back and grinned dopily, his shirt falling from his shoulders at an angle, blue eyes sparkling. "Come on; I'm curious."

Arthur frowned, reaching out to remove Alfred's glasses and place them safely on the bedside table. "You understand that I'll just be making it up on the spot again."

Alfred dealt with the last two buttons of his shirt himself, slipping out of the sleeves and letting the fabric crumple to the floor. "Don't matter to me, babe," he grinned at Arthur's hiss of irritation, directed both towards his poor grammar and that awful pet name. "Just gimme a word."

Arthur allowed him to return to his throat, wrapping his arms around his neck and resting his head thoughtfully against the pillows, running on hand idly up and down his back.

"Isolated," he finally whispered, and Alfred lifted his face from the crook of his shoulder to meet his gaze questioningly.

"Isolated?" he wrinkled his nose, obviously unimpressed. "Come on, Arthur," he rolled his eyes. "That doesn't even sound like something you would say."

Arthur chuckled and kissed him, pulling back eventually with a little sigh.

"That's because it wasn't me who said it."

Alfred opened his eyes again, raising a brow. "Then who did?"

"Kiku," murmured Arthur. "Back when we were in school together. We…" he averted his gaze. "He wasn't sure if…well, we fucked some, but I don't think Kiku really knew if…he was…"

Alfred blinked. "You fucked Kiku?"

"And Francis. Quite often."

Alfred seemed to consider this for a moment, furrowing his brows, and then he shrugged. "Way to kill the mood."

Arthur smiled gratefully at him, running his thumb along his cheek. "My apologies. If it makes you feel any better, Francis and I stopped at least a year before you and I ever met. Come to think of it, that was probably because we started sharing an apartment," he grinned a little wickedly. "I'm inclined to think that I tired him out."

Alfred pulled an exaggerated face. "Eew. Stop, please. I don't want to hear about that," he kissed Arthur just below his lower lip. "Let's go back to discussing your choice of word."

Arthur laughed. "Oh yeah, talk dirty to me," he teased, running his hands through Alfred's hair. "Dictionary definitions…you're absolutely killing me here, you know that?"

"Shut up," Alfred had finished the buttons of his shirt and threw it off to the side, leaning up eagerly for a kiss. "Come on. Explain," he murmured against Arthur's mouth.

Arthur sighed, tilting up his chin and nestling Alfred against his throat so that he could talk.

"You're telling me that you've never felt isolated as a kid? Or an adult, for that matter," he sighed as Alfred bit down gently on his jugular. "Stop that, it's distracting. Anyways," he paused. "Well, I suppose this is sort of similar to that time I told you the world as my script sees it was lonely, but…not quite the same. Isolated sort of suggests a loneliness within loneliness…" he began to fiddle with the button of Alfred's trousers. "I mean, as if you're the only one in the entire world who's lonely. A sole victim, if you will. Makes the pain all the worse, don't you think?"

Alfred nodded, allowed Arthur to throw his pants to the floor, and propped himself up on his elbow to meet his gaze, clearly indicating that he was going to make an argument.

"That's all well and good, but it doesn't apply to your script," he said, quite seriously even as he reached for the button on Arthur's trousers. "Again, though I guess it could apply to being a teenager and shit, it doesn't really mean anything for America. Unless you're talking about our isolationist period," he smiled triumphantly as he managed to get the button undone and Arthur lifted his hips to accommodate him. "But you're not. I actually think that _loneliness, _which I've totally shot down before,would be the better-fitting term, although neither really fits at all. And besides," he grinned. "Both loneliness and isolation can be broken, can't they? And I don't think you're trying to send the message of temporary pain."

Arthur swallowed, reaching up to cup Alfred's cheek in his hand.

"Well, yes, they're definitely…" he murmured softly. "Temporary…"

Alfred was quiet for a moment, blinked, and then grinned, leaning upwards a little to kiss Arthur long and soft, tangling their legs and arms and hands together until Arthur thought that they must be quite unrecognizable.

"I love you, Arthur," he murmured when he pulled away.

"Yeah, Alfred," whispered Arthur, as though he was afraid of the words – and perhaps he was. "I love you, too."

Alfred kissed him again, pulling back with a breathtaking smile.

"America in the morning," he whispered. Arthur smiled.

"Yeah, Alfred," he murmured. "Back to America in the morning."

_And seven days after their graduation, Arthur, Francis and Elizaveta were boarding a flight headed straight to Los Angeles, stepping into the beginning of the ruins of the greatest film empire of all time in an attempt to revive something golden from the fresh ashes of Hollywood. By then, most people looked at America and sighed. They looked at America and still managed to see a little hope._

* * *

><p>*wipes eyes with hankie*<p>

MOAR FLUFF.

I had a request last chapter for Alfred POV (I must confess that I've been missing his oh-so-heroic thought processes as well), and I'm happy to say that in the upcoming chapter we return to America and get all of his flashbacks, which are considerably less dark and have a lot less random fucking all over the place, not to mention another appearance of Matthew and his hipster 'tude. XD

**A Note: **Of course this international boarding school of theirs doesn't exist. I'm not even sure London has enough room for a boarding school. But again, what the plot asks for, the plot will receive, haha.

Also, please forgive any errors I made involving the European / British school system: I LIVE IN A-FUCKING-'MURCA AND I DUN NEED UR FANCY LEARNING WAYS.

**The Tate **is possibly the most famous art museum in London. I still have some pencils and erasers that I bought at the gift shop there.

GUESS WHAT. THIS CHAPTER WASN'T (much) OVER 10K WORDS. OHMYGOD WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

XD

As always, thank you, I adore you all, I love hearing your comments, questions, etcetera, and I'll see you next chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

This is the penultimate official chapter: CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?1!111!11

Incidentally, the word count is shorter; unfortunately, I've been rather pressed for time. Chapter ten is looking to be not too terribly long as well. Good thing or bad? Who knows. In either case, both chapters accomplish all that is necessary. ^^

**In Brief: **We come back to America, meaning that it's Alfred's turn to flash back.

Eek, so in this chapter, the timeframe I use for the movie production process is _so unrealistic _that it can scarcely function at all, really. Forgive me; just read over all the glaring issues with filming and editing and marketing, etcetera.T_T

ENJOY!

* * *

><p>They returned to Los Angeles and the next few months were such a blur of extra filming and editing and little problems and quirks and creases needing to be smoothed out that Arthur felt he had scarcely blinked his eyes before Francis set down his microphone for the last time, and three weeks or so later <em>Keep Dreaming, America <em>was ready to be screened to reviewers and critics before she premiered.

Alfred couldn't quite grasp the entire thing, either, but nevertheless as of late he had been positively glowing with self-satisfaction, and when he and Elizaveta weren't parading the streets of Los Angeles or sitting in at autograph sessions or posing for photographs with eager fans, he could be found trying to wrap Arthur up in his arms, distracting him from things that needed to be done or begging him to go out even when he knew it was impossible, or otherwise simply rambling on about the movie and the premiere and their performances, which was, admittedly, rather cute – he was so excited, after all, and even Arthur didn't like to dampen his enthusiasm.

"It seems like only yesterday, Arthur," he kept saying. "That we started this whole thing, doesn't it?"

And every time Arthur couldn't help but to agree, and despite himself he smiled at the calendar when he woke one morning to find that an entire month had passed since they had begun their relationship. Everything really had been something of a blur.

And in much the same fashion, the day of the first critical screening of the finished _Keep Dreaming, America _came and went. In an effort to soothe Alfred's frazzled nerves, Arthur allowed himself to be taken for drinks once they had left work; they sat in that old bar near World Series Entertainment, the one they had always frequented, reminiscing over the entire process of creating the movie and steadily making their way through several rounds of bourbons. In fact, a week later the tabloids would publish a photograph of this little outing under the heading _Boy's Night Out, _a title which struck Arthur as almost painfully ironic considering that, directly afterwards, they hurried home to Alfred's apartment and practically fell into each other, faintly drunk and just realizing that their work had kept them from seeing each other properly for a little too long.

Alfred lifted his face from Arthur's collarbone to catch his breath, one hand pressed tight against his waist, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers tangled into his hair.

"Arthur," he breathed, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes. "Would you do me a favor?"

Arthur stopped with the buttons of his shirt long enough to give him a questioning look.

"That depends on the favor," he murmured, then suddenly Alfred's mouth was on his again, and Arthur lost his balance a bit, throwing his arms around his neck to keep from falling and scowling at the low chuckle he felt in the back of Alfred's throat.

"Well, come on," Arthur muttered once they had parted. "Out with it, then."

Alfred grinned, pressing their foreheads together, glasses askew and cheeks flushed and blue eyes dark.

"My parents," he said cryptically. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but tilted his head back willingly when Alfred made another dive for his throat.

"What about them?" he asked, idly running his fingers up and down the back of Alfred's neck.

"They want to meet you," said Alfred, and Arthur abruptly pushed him away, holding him at arm's length to see if he was trying to make some sort of joke. His shirt was falling from his shoulders and he was grinning like a fool, yet even so, there was nothing but seriousness in his expression. Arthur swallowed.

"You mean to say…they know I exist?"

Alfred nodded, Arthur asked him how on earth _this_ had happened, and the color in his cheeks darkened; he shrugged sheepishly, glancing at the floor.

"I…well…I guess I kind of talk about you a lot or something, and they sort of picked up on it. They know me a little bit too well…" he bit down on his lower lip. "Anyways, they want to have you over for lunch. Tomorrow."

Arthur blinked. "You talk about me a lot? What in the world do you say?"

Alfred's blush deepened.

"I mean…I just…I don't know, _things -"_

"Things that evidently cause your parents to suspect that we are in a homosexual relationship."

"They notice names I bring up a lot, okay, and I guess I must not have sounded convincing when I told them we were just friends!" Alfred rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Artie. And considering _this_," he took a step forwards, catching an arm around Arthur's waist again, obviously having regained some of his composure. "That's a bit understandable, don't you think?"

Arthur allowed himself to be kissed for a long moment, then jerked his chin away and rested it on Alfred's bare shoulder, working off his shirt for good.

"Lunch, eh?" he murmured, pressing his mouth to the skin just above Alfred's collarbone. Alfred hummed appreciatively, undoing Arthur's tie and starting on the buttons at his throat.

"Please?"

Arthur sighed. "They won't try to burn me at the stake or anything, will they?"

Alfred chuckled, kissing his chin briefly. "Nope. They've dealt with Matt's coming out and shit already. They're used to it by now." Arthur's shirt fell away from his shoulders and Alfred pulled him close, arms securing tightly around his waist, palms pressed flat against the small of his back, flush together, skin on skin, and Arthur couldn't help but sigh at the contact – it really had been too long.

"So…please?" Alfred murmured in his ear, tracing the skin teasingly with his tongue.

"Ugh, stop that - it's revolting," Arthur pushed at him, but chuckled all the same. "And..well…fine, I suppose. But only because we haven't been seeing nearly enough of each other lately and I don't want this to stop because of some petty argument."

Alfred rumbled in what seemed to be both amusement and agreement. "I missed you, Arthur. I mean, I see you every day, but…" he trailed off, smirking. "Not quite like this."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Grow up, Alfred."

Alfred pouted exaggeratedly. "So you're not gonna say you missed me, too?"

"Fuck off," muttered Arthur, squirming around in an effort to maneuver them away from the doorway and towards the bed. "I say, were you planning on staying here the entire night, or are you going to let me move?"

Alfred stuck his tongue out, but he loosened his hold and allowed himself to be led over the bed and pressed into the mattress, lifting his hips so that Arthur could work his trousers off and toss them aside before he dragged him down for another kiss, long and heavy and tasting faintly of bourbon.

"They really want to meet me, eh?" murmured Arthur when they had parted.

"Who, my parents?" Alfred smiled at him warmly, reaching up to touch his cheek. "You betcha." He kissed Arthur again. "But I should warn you…" Another kiss. "From what I tell them about you, they really think you're amazing."

Arthur glared.

"Come off it."

"I'm being serious!"

"Oh, in that case, alert the masses."

Alfred stuck out his tongue. "You're mean."

Arthur sighed exaggeratedly. "And yet, it's part of my charm," he sat back, gazing down and allowing himself to admire Alfred for a moment. "We really must do this more often," he smirked, trailing a hand down Alfred's cheek.

"Agreed," whispered Alfred, leaning forwards eagerly. Arthur smiled and gladly accommodated him, opening his mouth and spreading his legs so that Alfred was nestled warm and heavy and comfortable against him.

"There should be lots more time for this now," murmured Alfred when they had parted. Arthur chuckled at his tone, uncertain and a little wistful, almost more of a question than a statement.

"I hope so," he offered as an answer, and the next morning when he woke between the sheets and Alfred's arms and had to get dressed to meet his parents, he was both amazed and a little frightened to think how far they had really come.

* * *

><p>Arthur really should have known that Alfred's old place of residence would look as if it could have been displayed in a museum as a vintage representation of the American Dream, down to the very last detail. After the gas stations and strip malls and cheap diners of the interstate had melted away into the landscape, Alfred curved their car up a sharp incline, and they suddenly broke over the top of a hill, from which point the entire Jones estate could be seen: the white farmhouse with the wraparound porch set like a child's plaything against acres and acres of farmland, the crisp rectangles of green only broken occasionally by clusters of brown cows or little patches of trees or underbrush, surrounded on all sides by the California hills. The total effect lent an illusion of isolation to the place despite the fact that in actuality, Los Angeles, with all her screaming streets and dust and big shiny businesses, was only just beyond the first roll of land.<p>

They drove down past the entire expanse of farmland up to the driveway of the house; Alfred turned the car off and smiled brightly, if not a little worriedly, at Arthur, who was craning his neck to get a better look at the entire place, suddenly feeling embarrassingly jumpy.

"You alright?" asked Alfred doubtfully. Arthur nodded distractedly, tapping his finger on his chin.

"Perfect," he murmured absently, glancing down at his thin dress shirt. "You don't think I'm underdressed, do you?"

Alfred chuckled, shrugging his shoulders to emphasize that he was still wearing the old bomber jacket that he had nicked from the studio, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Well ,they're _your _parents, you don't have to impress them," he smirked. "You've already let them down, after all."

Alfred stuck his tongue out. "You could at least pretend to like me, y'know."

Arthur chuckled, quietly flipping Alfred his middle finger as they got out of the car and stepped into the mild autumn air, the midmorning sunlight warm on the back of his neck. The sky was a high, porcelain sort of blue with only a few clouds scuttling along the rim of the horizon, and the air was soft and clean, touched faintly by the ripe smell of animals and hay. Alfred shot Arthur another reassuring smile and they ascended the steps to the porch, and when Alfred rung the doorbell they were serenaded with a mechanical reinterpretation of the National Anthem. Apparently, tardiness ran in the Jones blood, because they had already made it halfway through the second verse before the door swung open and Arthur was assaulted by a very familiar grin.

Aside from her smile, however, Mrs. Jones was not terribly similar to Alfred – the angles of her face were softer, her hair and skin were paler, she didn't wear spectacles, and her eyes were slender and shapely, so light in color that they were almost violet. There were lines at the corner of her mouth and her eyes, but Arthur could easily tell that she had been a very beautiful young woman, and she dressed and carried herself with a certain grace that obviously had not been passed down to her younger son. Mr. Jones, on the other hand (when he finally appeared, at the base of the stairs, looking a little rumpled but very happy), was tall and more than a little clumsy, with dark blue eyes and caramel-colored hair and skin browned and gently wrinkled from years of sun and work, not to mention a very firm handshake, as Arthur quickly discovered as they were introducing themselves, trying not to wince and hoping that he could return the enthusiastic grip the best he could.

After Arthur had successfully given his name and expressed his happiness at being welcomed into their home, Alfred enveloped both his parents into an enormous hug, and Arthur couldn't help but to smile softly, even though he was aware that he was hovering uncomfortably on the fringes of their family. However, Mrs. Jones wasted no time in hurrying him into the parlor and getting him settled on the couch next to Alfred, arranging a tray of drinks and appetizers on the coffee table before taking a seat herself, clearly preparing to stage something of an audience. At first Arthur shifted awkwardly in his seat, a little discomfited, but he quickly found himself soothed by Alfred's eager chatter and Mrs. Jones' quiet voice – she really was an unintimidating, graceful woman, and Arthur soon realized that he had become engaged in their conversation without having to make too much of an effort.

Perhaps this had been inevitable from the beginning, but it wasn't long before Mrs. Jones stood up and announced that she was going to bring out the family photo albums, at which point Alfred blushed furiously and begged her not to and Arthur tried (without much success) to suppress his laughter and disguise his eagerness. Fortunately, Alfred was paid no heed, and soon Arthur was leaning over Mrs. Jones' shoulder as she flipped through photograph upon photograph of her sons throughout their childhoods: little Alfreds and Matthews standing proudly next to cows or pushing each other on swing sets, old school photos, Matthew playing the guitar, Alfred dressed up for Halloween, the two of them as teenagers outside a movie theatre, Matthew holding a cigarette and Alfred grinning that same old brilliant grin, Matthew receiving some sort of medal for academic achievement, Alfred standing with a gaggle of other boys, holding a football, and, well, Arthur had no other choice but to stop there for a moment so that he could take the time necessary to gawk.

"Don't tell me," was all he could manage.

Alfred made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. "Turn the page, mom!"

"He was a quarterback," said Arthur a little dully, unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Jones merely smiled that same smile, though this time perhaps it was more akin to a smirk.

"Indeed he was," she said quietly. "Weren't you, Alfred?"

At this, Alfred blushed spectacularly, and Mr. Jones guffawed deeply.

"Best in the school!" he exclaimed proudly. "A regular hero, everyone said so!"

"Dad," Alfred was so obviously uncomfortable that it was really positively adorable; he was whining and fidgeting and shifting from one foot to the other like a little boy. "You know how that isn't something I talk about much!"

Mr. Jones merely took another sip of his beer, entirely unfazed.

"You know you're son's a fairy," he proclaimed after a moment. "When he's embarrassed about being the star QB."

Arthur was laughing too hard to notice the nervous glance that Alfred shot his way; he also didn't catch the enormous, if not rather sheepish, grin that followed. Eventually he dashed the tears from his eyes and smiled up at Alfred, who was rolling his eyes exasperatedly at his father, though he only received a smirk and the half-full beer glass raised in salute for his trouble.

"He won three of their homecoming games and everything," murmured Mrs. Jones. "He really was wonderful."

"I don't doubt it," managed Arthur, though another giggle was rising in his throat. "He really is quite the American picture, isn't he?"

* * *

><p><em>Alfred's touchdown won their homecoming game; he could still smell the wet grass on his hands, his body was still aching from the exertion, he could still feel the leather texture of the ball scraping his fingers raw, he could still hear the roar of the crowd in his ears, and consequently he found that he could still think of nothing else even as he was kissed harder, as she guided his hand to his chest, hiking up the little velour skirt of her cheerleading uniform, essentially inviting him to do whatever he liked. <em>

_Whatever that entailed; Alfred himself wasn't entirely sure. He was kissing her back, that he knew well enough, but he wasn't especially fond of the little things she was trying to do with her tongue, and her braces bit at his lower lip, and her body was altogether too yielding, giving to the slightest touch. She breathed too heavily, her mouth was too wet, and even as she ran the flat of her palm across his crotch Alfred didn't feel much more than a little shiver up his spine; nonetheless he leaned forwards eagerly, not wanting to disappoint her, and made a show of struggling with her bra straps. She giggled and helped him out, and then Alfred discovered that he wasn't really sure what to do. Fortunately, she took the initiative, leaning in close to his ear so that her bare breasts pressed against his chest. _

"_Do you have something?" she whispered, running her tongue over the shell of his ear. _

_Alfred blinked. _

"_Something?" _

_She giggled again. "Come on, silly." When he still looked confused, she rolled her eyes. "A condom, Alfred."_

"_Oh." Alfred realized that he didn't, and that he was relieved because of it. "N-no. Sorry." _

_She sighed and sat back on his lap, essentially straddling him. _

"_Too bad," she said with a little pout that was probably supposed to be alluring. "Looks like you're not getting any tonight." _

_Alfred blinked. Was this his queue to look disappointed? _

"_Aw, darn," he said rather lamely. She raised an eyebrow, glanced down at their position, and frowned. _

"_How come you're not…" she faltered. "How come…" _

"_I was thinking about the game," said Alfred on impulse, panic rising in his throat, though he wasn't sure why. Her frown deepened and she got off his lap, starting to look around for her bra. She found it on the floor to the side of his bed and stood up, deftly clasping it around herself._

"_You're an asshole," she snapped. "And now I'm not even going to suck you off." She wrinkled her nose. "Not that you managed much to suck off, anyways." _

"_Aw, darn," Alfred said again, not moving from his position on the mattress. She rolled her eyes._

"_You're an idiot. Still," she smiled at him as she headed for the door to his room. "Call me."_

"_Sure," said Alfred, giving her a halfhearted little wave. The moment she disappeared, her place in the doorway was taken by Matthew; he leant against the frame and smirked triumphantly, arms crossed over his chest almost as if he had won some sort of victory. _

"_What?" Alfred raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Got a problem?"_

"_Nope," grinned Matthew. "Nice game." _

"_Shut up." _

"_I was referring to the football." _

"_Oh please; you didn't even watch." Alfred glared. "You were too busy lighting up in the woods to have paid attention." _

_Matthew chuckled appreciatively. "Still, I'm proud of you, bro," he sauntered over and gestured for Alfred to move over on the bed, flopping down beside him. He reeked of tobacco and pot; Alfred wrinkled his nose and glanced over at his brother disapprovingly. _

"_Mom's gonna kill you." _

"_What else is new?"_

"_C'mon, Matt." _

_Matthew sighed. "C'mon, Al. You just had a girl in your room," he quirked an eyebrow. "Albeit not very successfully, but nonetheless, there was a girl. In your room. A cheerleader, no less. Do you really think mom would be thrilled to hear that?" _

_Alfred frowned and Matthew chuckled. _

"_Alright, then," he got up from the bed again and headed for the door. "So no pulling any holier-than-thou routines on me, alright?" _

"_I guess," Alfred murmured uncertainly. Matthew winked. _

"_And remember, bro," he grinned. "Virginity is so mainstream. I suggest you get rid of it." _

_Alfred threw a pillow at him._

* * *

><p>They took their lunch onto the patio, where Mr. Jones was grilling hamburgers, and at that point the interrogation really started. First, Arthur was asked where he attended school, if he liked it, which subjects were his favorites, how were his grades, etcetera. Despite the fact that he was already twenty-seven years old, the next item on the agenda evidently included such things as his plans for the future and how he intended to make a living – which, he might point out, he was already doing writing screenplays for their son to act in. Nonetheless, by the time the first round of burgers was off the grill, Arthur was half-convinced that somebody was going to ask him if he had picked out a ring yet; fortunately the food distracted the conversation for a while, and Arthur was able to breathe as Alfred simultaneously struggled to inhale his lunch and make sure that the conversation didn't veer back to education or personal finance.<p>

His efforts proved in vain; it wasn't long before Mrs. Jones set down her burger delicately and turned to Arthur again.

"So, Arthur," she said coolly. "What do you intend to do with my son?"

Arthur swallowed a little too quickly. "I beg your pardon?"

Mr. Jones turned from the grill, brandishing his spatula for emphasis. "What are your intentions?"

"M-my…" Arthur shot a glance at Alfred, who suddenly seemed very involved in picking little crumbs from his plate. "Forgive me, I'm not sure what you -"

Mrs. Jones smiled that soft, cryptic little smile of hers. "We need to know that you'll do right by him."

Arthur blinked, set his burger down on his plate, and folded his hands together over his lap. "But of course I will," he paused. "You have my word as an Englishman."

Mr. Jones guffawed. "Whatever worth that is!"

Arthur chuckled a little uncomfortably. "Well, when you disregard that whole imperialism thing…" He blinked; the joke was evidently lost on his audience. "Look, I promise," he said more seriously. "I won't…I mean…"

At this, Alfred finally cut in.

"Arthur has a little trouble expressing himself," he said through a mouthful of burger. "He's trying to tell you that he loves me and doesn't think he'll ever hurt me. Though, really, mom," he sent Mrs. Jones a reproachful glance. "I can take care of myself."

Mrs. Jones shrugged and took a sip from her glass of white wine, the smile still playing across her mouth.

"Of course you can, dear."

_Alfred hadn't been born when their mother had married his father, but Matthew both remembered the wedding and claimed that he could still recall little traces of his own biological father, whom their mother had divorced about a year before she met Mr. Jones. Alfred had never been sure as to whether he should believe his half brother, seeing as his only claims to evidence involving his birth father were limited to the occasional glimpse of a memory, perhaps a smile or a touch or the tone of a voice, and even these scanty recollections came about in spite of the fact that their mother made every possible effort to avoid any questions they ever posed about her former husband and took an obviously enormous (almost vindictive) satisfaction in referring to herself as Mrs. Jones, an all-around-American citizen. Matthew, however, didn't necessarily share this sense of pride, and by the time he was sixteen talked of nothing but running back to Canada and escaping the mainstream that his life in America evidently troubled him with so much. _

_Alfred really thought that all this talk was all fun and games, and he would only smile tiredly at Matthew when he laid out his plans for the future, nodding his head and humoring him and then steering the conversation in another direction. But then, Matthew made some different friends, started going to different places, took up smoking when he was bored, soon became bored all the time, or at least so he said, and therefore smoked all the time, and began to seem as if he might soon make good on his promises. This worried Alfred, but he also didn't honestly believe that Matthew would ever go so far as to leave home, at least not before he had graduated and managed to get some money off of their parents, so he never started any arguments about it or tried to persuade his brother otherwise. Besides, he admired Matthew despite himself – after all, it was he who had shown the golden universe of movies to Alfred, had taught him to fall in love with scripts and takes and rolls of old film, who took him to the theater every Friday and grilled him on old silent-movie trivia every other day, and Alfred really wanted very desperately to believe in him._

_This abruptly became a challenge when Alfred came home one day, walked up the stairs to Matthew's room, pushed open the door, and was met with the sight of his brother bent over another man on the bed, jeans around his ankles, face flushed and shiny with sweat, his current state of undress revealing – for some reason this detail had stuck most persistently in Alfred's memory, really characterizing the entire unfortunate scenario – a brilliant red tattoo of a maple leaf, centered perfectly in his very lower back, like some sort of injury or sore, perhaps the trace of the sickness of his defiance, Alfred would later suppose when he looked back on the occasion. _

_However, at the moment he merely blinked, flushed, and slammed the door, pressing his back up against the wall and exhaling long and shakily, blinking and blinking and blinking as though the motion would remove the image from his memory and help him to forget that he was suddenly very warm, too warm, all around his cheeks and his collar and the tips of his fingers, and that he couldn't seem to stop hearing the little moan of the other man, couldn't tear his thoughts away from the expressions on their faces, the position of their hips, the…the…Alfred swallowed. _

_So his brother was gay. That was all well and good; to be honest Alfred had suspected this for a while and really couldn't bring himself to be bothered. What __**was **__bothering him, however, was the sudden dizzying pace of his heartbeat; he lifted his fingers to his temple confusedly and sunk into a sitting position against the wall. Matthew still hadn't come out to try and deny anything; did that mean that, just beyond the thin strip of plaster, he was still…they were still…Alfred found himself suddenly seized by a fierce desire to press his ear against the wall, no, to open the door and finish what he had started, to see the whole thing through to the end, oh, he wanted to know was going to happen, he realized that was achingly curious and absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, and then Matthew opened the door and stepped out into the hall, gazing down at him almost apologetically, wearing nothing but his favorite skinny jeans, the edge of the crimson maple leaf glaring at him from above the waistband. _

"_Sorry about that, bro." _

_Alfred glanced up, both grateful and furious, but most of all confused. _

"_D-don't…don't worry about it." _

"_Sure," Matthew paused for a moment. "Alfred, I'm…I'm gay." _

"_No shit."_

_Matthew chuckled; that was a good sign. "And I…"_

_Alfred sighed. "You're going to go away soon, aren't you?" _

_Matthew nodded; he looked genuinely sorry. "I just can't…I need to…"_

"_Where?" asked Alfred tiredly. _

"_I'm not sure," Matthew didn't look at him. "Maybe Canada. Maybe Hollywood. Somewhere. I just need to get away from..." he gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "…all this. And," he was silent for a very long moment, biting on his lower lip in an uncharacteristically ashamed fashion. "I want…I sort of…I want to find him, Alfred. I need to know…who he is." _

"_Your father," said Alfred blandly, just to be sure. _

"_Yes," his voice was barely audible. "I love __**our**__ dad, but…I need to find __**my**__ father." _

"_I know," said Alfred. "I understand. When do you think you're going to leave?"_

_Matthew shrugged and joined him, leaning up against the wall, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. _

"_This summer, probably," he said eventually. "There's an underground film crew that's willing to take me; I just need to be sure that's what I really want." _

"_It sounds like you." _

"_Yeah," Matthew smiled, finally looking him in the eyes. "It does, doesn't it?" _

_Alfred nodded and they were silent for a moment._

"_Hey, Matt," Alfred found he was speaking against his own volition. _

"_Mm?" _

"_When did you…figure it out?" _

"_What out?"_

"_That you're gay." _

_Matthew shrugged noncommittally. "I guess I kind of always had an inkling that I was a little different," he examined a fingernail, brow furrowed pensively. "But if I had to be more exact, I'd probably say that it really started a few years ago. I would make out with a girl, hell, I'd fuck her, and it would do nothing for me. Funny," he chuckled. "I just thought that was how sex had to be. I was a little confused, but I took things as they were, which is to say, highly mediocre." He paused, a hint of nostalgia appearing on his face. "That is, until a boy kissed me at a party about two years ago. And it was like nothing I had ever felt before. Surely," he nudged Alfred affectionately, "you already understand it, because you get girls like there's no tomorrow. But…imagine that feeling all over again, except you're just realizing that it can be that way in the first place, and, well…I was hooked. Have been ever since. I take it, I give it, really it doesn't matter to me as long as I'm doing it - and I'll do it whenever and wherever I can," he chuckled wryly. "I'm such a fag." _

_Alfred swallowed. A feeling? One that he was supposed to know already, that Matthew was sure he knew already…well, if only Alfred himself could say the same. In all his escapades with the opposite sex (and there were many, though he was technically still a virgin), he could remember nothing but mediocrity, perhaps at best a halfhearted sort of enthusiasm. But what did that entail, exactly? _

_Alfred didn't know, he remembered that brief moment of frenzied desire he had felt not but five minutes ago, and realized that he wasn't sure he wanted to find out._

* * *

><p>After lunch, they sat and talked for a while, and eventually Mrs. Jones got up to clear the table, and Mr. Jones set about putting away the grill, and Alfred suggested that he and Arthur take a walk around the farm, explaining that he wanted to show Arthur around, get him acquainted with his old childhood haunts, although Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that he actually wanted to apologize excessively for all the awkwardness and use that as justification for pressing him into a tree stump or something equally unsanitary - he had that little restless glint in his eyes that meant he had been sitting still for too long and was therefore up to nothing good. Even so, the late California afternoon had stretched itself so prettily across the sky, a sort of haze of rich tired blue and gold and green, and the air was so mild and sweet, and Arthur was, after all, so very eager to escape the scrutiny of the Jones, that he agreed despite his misgivings and trotted after Alfred through the pastures until they reached the edge of the woods. Alfred searched along the line of trees for a moment, then let out a cry of victory and showed Arthur to a little path that led into the forest; after a little while longer of walking, they reached a clearing, and Arthur was startled to see that they had emerged onto the lip of a hill, the dark grassy valley rolling out before their feet, stained almost amber by the dying sunbeams that stretched up from the horizon.<p>

"This was my second favorite place in the world," proclaimed Alfred proudly, sitting down and dangling his feet over the edge of the hill, gesturing for Arthur to join him.

"It certainly is lovely," admitted Arthur, settling down next to Alfred and allowing him to weave their fingers together. "Tell me, what is it with you and hills? It seems we always end up gazing into the sunset or something together."

Alfred smirked. "I'm just that damn Hollywood."

Arthur chuckled appreciatively. "Touché," he paused for a moment, returning his gaze to the view. "And it is rather nice, I suppose, if not a little clichéd."

Alfred sighed in agreement and they fell silent for a spell.

"Sorry about my parents," murmured Alfred eventually. Arthur shrugged.

"It was rather cute, actually, if not a little unnerving." He laughed. "It seems they're laboring under the delusion that you are some sort of impressionable young woman, a pure young thing, and of course nothing more than putty in my not-necessarily-trustworthy grasp."

"Well, Artie," Alfred grinned, and cupped his hand over the back of Arthur's neck to bring him close and press a kiss to his temple. "Maybe they're not entirely wrong."

"Don't call me that," Arthur pushed at him with no real force. "And kindly shove off."

"You _did _deflower me," Alfred pointed out, and Arthur snorted.

"Don't flatter yourself; I merely plucked off the last petal, my dear."

"You're mean."

"We've been over this countless times before, lovely."

"Lovely?"

"Sarcasm, Alfred."

"Boy, if only my parents could hear you now."

"I know, I'm a monster," Arthur chuckled and brought Alfred's head down to rest on his shoulder, running his hands through his hair rhythmically, almost absently. "Now hush."

For once, Alfred did as he was told, turning his cheek more comfortably into the crook of Arthur's collarbone, the frames of his glasses shifting over his nose, eyes reflecting little bits of the landscape from behind the smudged panes.

"Arthur," he murmured eventually. "I want my word."

It took Arthur was minute to realize was he was talking about, then he clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head but smiling despite himself.

"Don't be impatient; it's not the premiere yet."

"But it _almost _is," moaned Alfred, voice muffled against Arthur's neck.

"I repeat myself: not _yet._"

"Are you saying you haven't thought about it at all?"

"What, pray tell, are you planning on doing if I don't have your word ready for you in time?"

Alfred shrugged, glancing up at Arthur sleepily. "Nothing much, really. But you'll know how disappointed I am," the slightest smirk toyed with the bow of his lips. "And it will eat away at you inside."

Arthur chuckled affectionately. "Will it, now?"

Alfred nodded, turning his nose back into his collarbone. "Until there's nothing left…"

"Alright, then, my word is empty."

Alfred groaned. "Don't joke about this; it's serious."

"Yes, yes, of course it is," Arthur smiled softly, maintaining the rhythm of his fingers through Alfred's hair as he gazed back out over the lip of the hill. It was late autumn, so the sun had begun to set already, touching suggestions of orange and pink at gold at the fringes of the horizon, and the air was cooler; if it hadn't been for Alfred's warmth pressing against his side, Arthur might have shivered.

"Lost," Arthur sighed after a moment. "The world as my script sees it is lost."

Alfred finally lifted himself from Arthur's shoulder so that he could look at him seriously, the late afternoon light soaking one side of his face and casting a curious shadow on the other, though still his eyes gleamed curiously, almost a little worriedly.

"I've heard that one before," he said eventually. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Certainly not from me."

"No," Alfred paused for a moment, and then turned back to Arthur with a smile. "And just by the way, it doesn't work for your script," he stretched his arms over his head, sighing with satisfaction when there was an audible pop. "First of all, it's such a cliché I can't even find the words to fully express it to you. Second of all, even if Alfred doesn't have a purpose, I wouldn't say he's lost…more of oblivious. Or something – just not lost. And lastly, as it seems I always have to point out to you, the concept of _lost_ doesn't have _anything, _anything at all, to do with the American Dream, and you know it. The premiere isn't far off, Arthur," he winked. "I suggest you start thinking harder."

Arthur frowned. "I'm not about to start taking suggestions from _you_, thanks very much."

Alfred merely grinned. "Your funeral."

"Yes, I'm sure," murmured Arthur, and despite himself, he missed Alfred's warmth against his side, because it really was getting colder and the breeze had picked up, cutting through the thin material of his dress shirt. He hugged his arms around himself and glared down at the expanse of farmland stretching before them, kicking his heels against the side of the hill. Alfred raised an eyebrow, smirked, then leaned over and kissed him, and although Arthur wasn't entirely sure that this place was as secluded as Alfred might believe, at least he was warm again, so he wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck in an effort to make him stay. Eventually, Alfred broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together, grinning triumphantly at him. Arthur snorted and looked away, nonetheless keeping a hand balanced at the back of Alfred's neck, fingers threaded in his hair.

"I was a little cold," he muttered eventually, and Alfred laughed out loud.

"If that's what they're calling it now," he grinned, and before Arthur could protest, he had leaned in and kissed him again.

* * *

><p><em>Matthew had always been the type to make a scene, so Alfred was rather surprised by the subtlety with which he handled his farewells. In fact, he even had the good grace to let their parents in on the plan the night before he was going to leave, which certainly made for awkward dinner conversation but on the whole relieved a lot of the tension come the following morning, when Matthew stood on their porch surrounded by duffle bags, decked out in his favorite skinny jeans, neatly tucked into a pair of combat boots with the entire effect of the ensemble set off by a sharp tweed blazer, his hair tied at the nape of his neck in a little milk-blond ponytail, smile sad but eyes bright with anticipation. <em>

_Their parents hugged him goodbye, wished him good luck in Hollywood, and although their mother eyed him with something like disappointment, even Alfred could sense the tacit agreement between Matthew and their father: what Matthew had to do was understood, and eventually, when all was said and done, he was welcome to come back home. Alfred was grateful for this even though he knew this wouldn't be the last time that he saw his brother by any means, especially not since he had decided to become an actor once he had gone to college and gotten some sort of degree. _

_He drove with Matthew to the end of their estate and sat in the car beside him as he gazed out at the rode curving away in front of them, the slightest smile curving his mouth. _

"_Are you nervous?" Alfred asked eventually, when Matthew made no move to ask him to get out of the car. _

"_Oh yes, terribly," Matthew was grinning now. "And I'm savoring it." _

"_You're weird." _

"_At least I'm not mainstream." _

"_Shut up, Matthew."_

"_No, you shut up, Alfred," and Matthew turned and looked at him so fondly that Alfred suddenly wanted to beg him not to go even though he knew he had to._

"_Be…" he paused. "Be okay, alright, man?"_

"_Of course," Matthew's smile softened. "I'm only on the other side of these hills, you know. You can come see me whenever. Except when I'm on the road, of course, but otherwise, come, bro, really, and get your taste for Hollywood…before the taste is all gone, that is." _

"_How reassuring." _

"_Just being honest. Now get the fuck out of my car."_

_Alfred grinned and hugged him tightly before he hopped out the passenger side and craned his neck through the open window, giving his brother a cocky little salute. _

"Bon voyage, mon frère !_" _

_Matthew stuck out his tongue, "the entire population of Quebec just got a stomach ache," and then he stepped on the gas and was gone, leaving nothing but a little explosion of dust marking where he had left. Alfred gazed after him for a moment, then turned and began to trudge back to the house, kicking up the dust of their driveway as he went and occasionally shouting at the cows, grinning when he received a curious but not particularly alarmed doe-eyed glance in reply. _

_His parents had already gone inside, and when Alfred went in and saw them sitting at the breakfast table over coffee and toast, he felt compelled to tell them that Matthew had gone, even though of course they already knew. Even so, they nodded and invited him to join them; Alfred wandered over, pouring himself a cup of coffee and buttering his toast, and just like that their lives returned to normal. _

_[It was already Alfred's senior year when he was absolutely sure of it. He supposed the realization was a combination of a lot of things – the various girls who had thrown themselves at him over the years, the rush in his pulse when he stepped into the locker room, to name a few – but most of all he attributed it to his brother, to Matthew, and not only to that time that he had stumbled in on something he shouldn't have, but to his brother's entire attitude regarding the subject, his blatant, unaffected, absolute lack of shame, because it was almost encouraging, and after Alfred had recovered from the initial shock of the realization he found that he was grateful for it._

_He told his parents, and his father sighed and muttered something that sounded like _really, both of them? _ before he smiled reassuringly and told Alfred that was just fine, while his mother merely crinkled her brow, echoed his father's sigh, and restated just how fine everything was. Alfred was grateful, and because he didn't know any better, he came out at school as well, and though at first everyone was alarmed, they calmed down quickly because he was Alfred F. Jones, star quarterback, breathtakingly handsome, all blond hair and blue eyes and gleaming white grins, and therefore absolutely impervious to bullying, so why even try? He even went on a few dates with another boy at one point, kissed him a few times, and began to understand that feeling Matthew had been talking about, though he never went beyond there, mainly because he was busy applying to colleges and trying to make good grades and stay on the football team all at the same time, on top of continuing to practice his acting. (When he announced to his coach that his attendance at practices might be a little spotty due to his being recently cast in the school musical production, he wished he could have gotten a snapshot of the expression he received, but even so he was allowed to participate in both activities, and the school was so awed by his good-natured capability to switch between worlds that they never said a word regarding his sexuality, not even behind closed doors, because the moment his name came up someone would immediately jump in and start talking about what a good guy he was, and then nobody would say anything nasty for fear of being reproached by their peers, although it was most likely that they were all harboring similar thoughts.) _

_When Alfred called Matthew one night and told him about his realization, he could hear the pride in his brother's voice even over the phone. _

"_Nobody's giving you any shit, right?" he asked once he had finished his congratulations. Alfred shook his head, remembered that Matthew couldn't see him over the phone, and then said no, nobody had bothered him at all, in fact, he had even gotten a few dates recently. At this, Matthew whistled, then chuckled softly. _

"_If that's the case, have you done away with it yet?" _

_Alfred blinked. "Done away with what?" _

_He could practically hear Matthew rolling his eyes. "Has your dove been soiled yet, Alfred?"_

"_My…dove?" _

"_Your virginity, Alfred. Is it still hanging around your asshole or not?" _

_Alfred blinked, nearly dropped the phone in his surprise, scrambled to bring it to his ear again, and blushed, stammering into the mouthpiece. _

"_Y-yes, of course it is! Er…" he blushed harder. "I haven't lost it yet." _

_Matthew snorted. "How virtuous of you. You're making me feel like a slut."_

"_Well…sorry, I guess." _

_Another snort. "I'm just kidding you, bro. Take your time, I guess. You've always been a little bit more of a sap than I ever was." _

_Alfred sighed, paused, took a deep breath, and then: _

"_Matthew, when you first came out, what was it like? Was it scary?" _

"_Not really. Why? Are you scared?"_

"_Not very. Just a little. But…" Alfred bit down on his lower lip. "I want to know what it was like for you." _

_Matthew was quiet for a moment, then he sighed. _

"_I guess I just felt…" Another pause. "…lost, for a little while. But it went away."_

"_Sure," Alfred murmured, gripping the phone tightly to his ear without really realizing it. Matthew was quiet for a moment. _

"_You'll be okay, Al," he said eventually. _

"_So will you, Matt," answered Alfred, and then they hung up.]_

* * *

><p>Alfred and Arthur returned to the house to find Mr. and Mrs. Jones bent over the computer in the study. Upon noticing that they had returned, Mr. Jones sprung from his seat and bounded over to Alfred, pounding him on the back and shouting his congratulations. Alfred straightened his upset glasses and tried to calm his father in order to get him to explain all the excitement; with a little effort it was revealed that the New York Times had published their review of <em>Keep Dreaming, America<em> online, and that it was more than a little flattering. Arthur was the first to the computer, even going so far as to push Mrs. Jones aside a little bit so that he could grab the mouse and scroll up to the beginning, eyes flitting across the screen as Alfred hovered at his shoulder, practically pressing his face into Arthur's neck in what was evidently an effort to get as close to the computer as physically possible.

_A crispy planned, timely plotline…_

Arthur scrolled down; Alfred let out a little protest and he returned to their old position with a little huff of irritation.

_Graceful filming, efficient script…_

"Are you quite finished, Alfred?"

"Yeah, yeah, go down some more, we don't have all day!"

_Makes an interesting if not somewhat facetious statement regarding…_

_Considering the message, perhaps it would be better to keep the secret of the film crew's nationality a secret from the American people… _

_Young upstart Alfred F. Jones…_

"That's me!"

"I'm aware; kindly be quiet."

_Certainly looks the part, clearly a sign of a deft casting manager…_

Arthur chuckled and Alfred stuck out his tongue before actually reaching out and covering his hand to force him to scroll down some more.

…_making his mark in the tabloids, but what of his acting? _

_Well, it certainly can't be denied that…_

…_capture the…_

…_and in conclusion…_

Arthur was left gazing at the screen for a moment before Alfred let out an enormous whoop of victory and punched the air, glasses lopsided and cheeks flushed, grinning from ear to ear.

"This is unbelievable…" said Arthur. Alfred nodded, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him in his excitement.

"I know! Did you see what they said, Artie? Did you?" Alfred didn't wait for an answer. "They said I was convincing! That my _bumbling if not endearing mannerisms," _he punctuated these lines with air quotes, "_combined with a few particularly deft turns of phrase, capture the near-antiquated charm of the boy-next-door, if only because blind innocence – the very trait essential to Mr. Jones' skills as an actor – has always been an indispensible ingredient in that particular formula. _That's good, that's really good!" He paused, raising an eyebrow at Arthur's unchanged expression. "…isn't it?"

Arthur shook his head. "This is unbelievable."

Alfred blinked, tilting his head to the side. "In that really good way, right?"

Arthur glared. "Most certainly not!" He shrugged off Alfred's hold. "Aren't you reading this, Alfred? It's utter bollocks!" He glanced at Mrs. Jones apologetically. "Excuse my language, but it's true. I mean, come on," he gestured sharply at the screen. "Could they possibly _be _any more condescending to you? Really, I'm of half a mind to march over there and give them a sound talking to!_ Bumbling, if not endearing, mannerisms?_ My god, they're acting as if you're some sort of child!" Arthur turned his glare on Alfred. "_Blind innocence," _he spat, "my arse! I most certainly will not stand for them to mock you like this, Alfred, and neither should you!"

Alfred blinked once, twice, and then grinned.

"Aw, Artie, you're sweet."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his anger abating in favor of surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"It was a good review, Arthur, practically a rave," Alfred winked. "No need to go all protective on account of a few backwards compliments."

"Backwards compliments…why, those were nothing short of insults!"

"Well gee, Arthur, better watch out or you're going to make me feel bad," said Alfred with no real seriousness in his voice, casting a smirk at his parents.

"I…how…so you're going to blame this on me?" spluttered Arthur. "What on earth…when I'm just…I mean, _read it, _Alfred!" he gestured furiously to the screen. "Nobody, I repeat, _nobody, _is allowed to be so condescending to you, at least not while I still live and breathe!" He paused for a moment, realized what he had just said, and blushed furiously, all his anger running away to be replaced by embarrassment as Alfred beamed and laughed at the same time, and as the Jones exchanged knowing glances, smiling at each other: their son was in safe, in not perpetually disgruntled, hands.

* * *

><p>D'aww. Jones seal of approval. Ain't that cute.<p>

(And, my dear RikaChieko, I dedicate Mattie's tramp stamp to you.)

Next chapter comes the premiere, some stuff I'm not gonna keep a secret, some MOAR stuff I'm gonna keep a secret, and something of a conclusion – though really, that will be dealt with in the epilogue. :3

Two Answers (that I have to put in the text because…):

**Qu'est-ce que c'est **– (…because you are an anon.) - I never thought to dissect the literal meaning of the phrase…meh, my enormous Larousse dictionary says that _sous-titre_ is the French equivalent of _cut, _and I was careful to make sure I got the specific _film _definition. Thank you for your interest; it's always flattering to know that people pay enough attention to notice little things like that. ^^

**Mormoka** – (…because your PM feature is disabled, waah.) – you're gonna LOVE chapter ten. AWWWWW YISSSSSSS.

(As an aside, if we reach 100 reviews this chapter, I may actually shit my pants with joy. You all are _so _kind – not only is this my first fanfic around here, but it's so far been painfully long and full of unnecessary wordiness, and yet, I've had so many alerts and reviews and favorites that I just…eek, I don't deserve any of you, thank you all so much!)

And I'll tell you a secret: stay tuned, because I do indeed have plans for the future - in English, no less! ^^

All my love and gratitude, and until the next chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

HEY HOW DID THEY FINISH A FILM IN LIEK SIX MONTHS?

LOLOLOL IDK THEY LIEK JUST DID I GUESS!11!111!111

Seriously, though...I don't know how the timeline came out this way. (Oh wait, yes I do. It's because I didn't think about it at all…ahaha…ha…) Please be kind and ignore its outright physical impossibility.

Also,

OMG U GAIZ WATER U DOING SAYING SUCH WONDERFUL THINGS TO ME. STOP THAT. In all seriousness, you're far too kind; I don't deserve you as it is, don't make it worse! XD Really, though, I'm incredibly grateful, and I sincerely hope the conclusion to the story (along with Arthur's word – eek!) doesn't disappoint.

**In Brief: **The premiere. 'Nuff said.

(Btw, happy Yom Kippur, everybody. I haven't eaten anything today…T_T Actually, come to think of it, I probably shouldn't be on the computer. BUT I AM. OH WELL.)

And without further ado…the *technical* end to this veritable monster of a fanfic. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>A word. Arthur had lived his entire life surrounded by words, he had grown up amongst towers of dusty books and documents and tattered old scripts, lurked through the hallways of his schools with novels overflowing from his arms - too many words (if that was possible), so many, in fact, that he had taken a job altering their very structure so that they could flow with movement and sound and life, redrawing their outlines delicately so that a camera and an actor could pour color into the predesigned shapes, and yet in spite of all this it had been nearly half a year and he still had yet to find the perfect one, really just a lone syllable, nothing more than the slightest movement of the lips and tongue, to describe the world he had crafted for their movie.<p>

It was the night of the premier and Arthur glanced a little guiltily at the thesaurus that was resting on the edge of Elizaveta's desk; he finally turned the chair away and draped an arm over the back, leaning out far and craning his neck in an effort to distract himself by trying to peer down the hallway that lead to the room where Elizaveta and Alfred were getting ready. Francis, balancing himself on the edge of the desk beside Arthur, coughed as a thick wave of perfume assaulted them; this was followed only a moment later by Elizaveta, all classic Hollywood glamour in a strapless crimson silk gown that fell to her toes, diamonds catching the lamplight at her ears and the hollow of her throat, hair long and loose and curling over at the ends, altogether delicate and tall and graceful and glittering, nothing but smiles as she clattered over to them in her high heels and threw her arms gleefully around both their necks at the same time. Arthur smiled and patted her waist, trying to be discreet about peering over her shoulder to get a glimpse of Alfred, who had just emerged himself and was paused at the entrance to the study, fidgeting with his bowtie and trying to adjust his glasses at the same time. The stylist had dressed him simply, elegantly: a handsome tuxedo, superbly fitted at his waist, full tails, shining shoes, hair neatened only slightly because its flyaway sort of sloppiness was all part of the charm, soft messy gold bringing out the high blue of his eyes – they were paler tonight, Arthur thought to himself, but then he looked away because he realized that he was probably paying too much attention.

When Elizaveta released him, Arthur stepped back, straightened his own bowtie, and smiled at her, keeping a hand about her waist affectionately.

"We did it," crowed Francis quietly, and they grinned at each other, forgetting Alfred for only a moment, namely because he almost immediately barged through their circle, actually puffing his chest out a little bit as he struck an exaggerated sort of pose.

"So how do I look?" He pulled his bowtie tighter and sent a little wink to Arthur, who rolled his eyes while Elizaveta chuckled and Francis simply leered.

"Positively Hollywood," muttered Arthur as he licked his thumb and briskly straightened a flyaway strand of Alfred's hair, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth exasperatedly. "I must admit that it's rather fitting."

"Well, you can hardly blame us," said Elizaveta, giving a little twirl and watching the scarlet skirts of her dress flare out around her ankles, "after all, this may be the last we'll ever see of Hollywood glamour, so we might as well make the most of it."

"Agreed," sighed Francis. "What a shame that such an age of romance is fading," he took Elizaveta by the shoulder and spun her again, nodding approvingly before he stopped her and allowed her skirt to fall back into place. "You, my dear, look nothing short of splendid. I must say, Gilbert and Roderich will be beside themselves with envy," he shot a smirk at Alfred, who was squirming beneath Arthur's relentless fussing, trying to bat him away with his hands as he fluttered at his bowtie and hair and glasses. "Little do they know…"

"Bah, better they don't," Elizaveta wrinkled her nose in disgust, smoothing her hands over the bodice of her dress. "I still haven't decided between them, after all. Once I do, though…" she glanced over at Alfred and Arthur. "I suppose it's really up to them."

At this, Alfred stopped his whining, though he kept his hold tight around Arthur's wrist to get him to stop trying to smooth out his hair.

"That's right," he murmured, a little crease appearing between his brows. "Once this is all over…I mean, there'd be no reason…so…" he paused. "What _do_ we want to do, Arthur?"

Arthur took advantage of the situation to spring upwards and thumb Alfred's bangs back across his forehead, rocking back on his heels and letting out a little cry of triumph despite the fact that they fell right back into their previous position not a moment after.

"Oh, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said dismissively, then reached for Alfred's jacket, frowning when he tried to wriggle away from his grip. "Please, Alfred, your lapels…" He gave a little hiss of frustration. "Stylists these days, really…so incompetent, every last one of them…"

Alfred grinned and grabbed his wrist, catching him by surprise and pulling him forwards to successfully land a little kiss on his forehead, right in front of Francis and Elizaveta (though admittedly they weren't paying much attention), Arthur letting out a little cry of surprise before he blushed splendidly and pushed Alfred away, straightening his upset bowtie and glaring at him as best he could given the circumstances.

Alfred rebalanced his glasses and ran a hand through his hair quite casually, though his smirk betrayed that he knew very well how he was upsetting Arthur's careful handiwork. Arthur merely intensified his glare and turned away, reminding Francis and Elizaveta, who were still gossiping excitedly about the guests they were planning to entertain, and the designers they would be wearing, and the food and the music and the décor, that it wasn't long before they had to get going. Elizaveta squealed and attached herself to Alfred's arm as if they were already standing before the paparazzi; it was planned that, seeing as they were the principal masterminds behind the movie itself, Francis and Arthur would attend the premiere together and take their stroll down the red carpet after some of the hubbub surrounding the golden couple had abated.

They left Elizaveta's apartment and loaded into the limousines parked outside; in an excessive display of gallantry, Alfred actually stepped in front of the chauffeur to open the door for Elizaveta, though he wouldn't stop grinning foolishly at Arthur until he had disappeared behind the tinted windows. Arthur rolled his eyes for his own benefit and slipped into the other limousine after Francis, crossing his legs primly and allowing his forehead to press against the cool glass of the window as the car sped up and the streets of Los Angeles ran together into a blur that was oddly darkened by the tint of the glass, little more than a smear of grey for almost the entire ride until color exploded against the cement and asphalt with an almost unpleasant suddenness. Arthur had to blink to dispel the shock of the abrupt noise and brightness and the glitter of the cameras snapping open and shut, announcing that they had arrived at the premiere. The limousine gently eased to a stop at the curb, and from there Arthur and Francis could see Alfred and Elizaveta poised in the center of the red carpet, waving with the arms that weren't busy wrapping around each other's waists, each grinning enormous smiles that hit on a strange juxtaposition between entirely real and unpleasantly fake: they were both obviously truly happy, but they showed a little too much teeth and so their grins glinted almost eerily in the frantic flashing of the cameras.

Arthur and Francis slipped from the limo, and although the cameras didn't bother to turn towards them for even a moment, Arthur found that he couldn't manage to quell the thrill that arched up his spine when he edged his toes onto the hem of that carpet, stopping to stare a little breathlessly at his feet pressed against the brink of red cloth before Francis grabbed him by the elbow and began to yank him forwards, which somewhat ruined his private moment of revelry but really was rather fitting, all things considered.

For all its fame, the walk was nothing remarkable: they took a few steps, waved a bit although nobody was really looking at them, exchanged one disbelieving little glance of triumph, and then it was over, they were at the end, suddenly surrounded by the throngs of people who were trying to get at Alfred and Elizaveta, the incessant chattering of the camera lenses, and Gilbert and Antonio and Romano (who had for once been allowed to dress in normal attire) as well, laughing and shouting and giving Arthur and Francis painfully enthusiastic pounds on the shoulder every once in a while. Antonio couldn't seem to stop leering at Romano, and Gilbert's smile grew a little forced whenever he glanced over at Elizaveta, who clung to Alfred's arm as if her life depended on it, but overall the mood was a pleasant mixture of victory and relief, to the point where it was almost overwhelming, and Arthur more of stumbled rather than walked into the theater to take his seat before the screening began. He ended up squeezed between Gilbert and Francis, with Antonio and Romano whispering in Italian and Spanish from somewhere above them and Elizaveta and Alfred enthroned just one row in front of them, their fingers wound together on the armrest between them. As the theatre began to dim, Alfred turned his head and winked at Arthur, the movement betrayed only by the glitter of his glasses in the growing darkness, shadows marking out the crooked line of his grin. Arthur smiled softly, and because the theater was nearly black by then, took the risk of reaching out and running his fingers through Alfred's hair, only lingering for an instant before he drew back and folded his hands primly in his lap, refusing to meet the smug looks Alfred was sending his way, instead focusing determinedly on the screen as it crackled to life.

The audience hushed as the first scene began, the screen glowing with a sort of brassy vintage light, almost like an antique photograph except very much alive, vibrant, applicable to modern day situations but just a little removed from the world they lived in nowadays (whatever that was, exactly). Alfred appeared, and he was devastatingly handsome, boyish and already too-grown-up, fallible and invincible in the same instant, with too much strength for himself and yet not enough for what his tiny world (composed of his parents and his school and his lovely foreign girlfriend) asked of him. He was a contradiction, and he was breathtaking, even if he bumbled over his lines like a child tripping over rolls in the sidewalk. Elizaveta complemented him splendidly, supporting his lack of experience with her grace and intelligence as an actress but never once threatening to overshadow him, never overstepping the role she had been cast into, and of course traipsing through Paris with that red scarf flowing out behind her like a dream (Arthur heard Gilbert sigh beside him at several points throughout the film).

And Arthur had to be proud. The dialogue and the screen directions expanded and contracted around each other as naturally as breathing, skipping and falling like little stones at first, then gradually growing to be larger and larger, almost like something crumbling, but in the most thrilling way possible, a sort of grand chain reaction of characterization and explanation and plot and pauses and gestures all shattering together to create a fantastic mess at the finale. When the end credits rolled Arthur exhaled and found that he didn't dare to smile or laugh or react at all as applause filled the room. He could only sit there, hands still folded crisply on top of one knee, gazing blankly at the quiet screen.

Eventually, he felt Francis' hand on his shoulder.

"We've done well, my friend," he said quietly. "We ought to be proud."

"We really…" Arthur paused, and then smiled cautiously. "That was certainly something, wasn't it?"

"You bet your ass it was!" cried Gilbert, springing from his seat and grinning like a madman. "That was so fucking awesome, you guys, I can't even like, fully express it to you! Except," his expression darkened slightly. "I hate to say this, but I think it was a bit too romantic. We don't need all that sappy stuff. I mean, come on…" he trailed off, eyes flickering towards Elizaveta a bit forlornly. "Who really cares, after all…"

Antonio leaned down towards Arthur and Francis, a knowing smile on his face.

"Pay no attention to what Gilbert's jealousy makes him say," he winked. "You have done an admirable job. _Una verdadera maestra obra, _if I may."

Arthur found that his smile kept widening with every moment that passed. "Thank you, Antonio," he paused. "For everything."

Antonio grinned and shook his head. "_Claro._" He turned back to Romano, the grin melting into a smirk. "_Già, Romanino, dobbiamo partire, no ?" _

Romano rolled his eyes. "Shut the fuck up," he said, and Arthur jumped at hearing him speak without the faintest accent. "Speak English, you bastard. Nobody here can fucking understand you."

Antonio pouted. "_Qué cruel eres conmigo." _

"It's no mistake, asshole." Romano stood up, straightening his jacket, an unusually authoritative gleam in his eye. Arthur realized he had never seen him outside the office before, and thus had never considered that he perhaps didn't live his life in a constant state of submission. "Let's go."

"_Andiamo?" _asked Antonio hopefully.

"Let's go."

"¿_Vamos?" _

At this, Romano merely began to walk away; Antonio grinned sheepishly before hopping up to follow him, using various different tongues to give voice to what were presumably endearments as he went.

"I should probably go with them," said Gilbert to Francis and Arthur, though his gaze kept straying to Elizaveta as he spoke. "But I'll totally see you all at the after party, right? Our place, as usual."

Before Arthur could protest, Francis had said that they would absolutely be there, Gilbert had awarded them a thumbs up and a toothy grin, stolen one last furtive glance at Elizaveta (who was still chattering contentedly away with Alfred), and finally hurried away, the tails of his tuxedo flapping behind him. Arthur sighed and glared halfheartedly at Francis, who wasn't paying attention anyhow – he was too busy eagerly telling Elizaveta that he had counted how many times Gilbert had looked at her in the past five minutes and he was running out of fingers, at which she snorted and laughed but turned a little pink around the cheeks and ears and glanced almost nervously at her hands a couple of times, as if she were secretly pleased. Arthur smiled, then he felt something sharp press against his knee and discovered that Alfred was poking him, just with the tip of his finger, but firmly and persistently, a little grin turning up the edges of her mouth, eyes sparkling with a curious mixture of mischief and pride.

"Yes, oh dearest love of my soul?"

Alfred's grin deepened. "That was awesome."

Arthur reached down and grabbed Alfred's hand to get him to stop harassing his knee, reaching across the top of the seat to return it to his lap. "Indeed," he paused. "You were quite impressive, Alfred."

"Only because of you, Arthur."

Arthur blinked and looked away despite himself; Alfred's expression was so suddenly earnest that it was bringing a little heat to his cheeks.

"Well, you exaggerate."

"Not in the least," Alfred was grinning again as he stood up, reaching for Elizaveta's hand and tucking it up around the crook of his arm even as he winked suggestively at Arthur. "But don't let that make you think I've forgotten," they started towards the exit of the theatre, already able to hear the gentle roar of the paparazzi outside the heavy door. "You still owe me my word."

* * *

><p>The after party was a classic Gilbert-Antonio sort of affair, bursting with big names and glittering stars and heavy Spanish cocktails, pounding with music and conversation and the cries of high heels against white marble floors, glowing with lights and chandeliers and diamond jewelry, extravagant to the point of a sort of thrilling gaudiness that was only increased by the patriotic theme chosen for this particular occasion. Arthur was convinced that, if all the American flags hung in that house were counted, they would number at least one hundred, if not more - and as if this weren't enough, they were all of varying sizes and designs, some only about as wide as tablecloths while others stretched across entire walls, dating from various points in history (Arthur even thought he caught a glimpse of one that included a bit of the Union Jack). All of this, of course, thrilled Alfred, and they were hardly through the door before he and Elizaveta had disappeared into the throngs of people to make sure that there would be plenty of photographs of them dancing and celebrating and looking all-around fulfilled and enamored with each other. Arthur supposed they would kiss a few times, make the rounds introducing themselves to important celebrities, try to avoid Gilbert and Roderich (Arthur had caught a glimpse of the latter lurking near the bar, looking very dapper but not particularly happy, as per usual) and drinking themselves silly in order to survive it all.<p>

Well, Arthur would have drunk himself silly anyways, but at least he could use that as some form of excuse. He swiped a glass from a passing waiter and had the misfortune to take a sip before he realized that the cocktail had been mixed according to the theme and was therefore some vile concoction of cherry juice, vodka, blue raspberry flavoring, cream, and what appeared to be a handful little silver sugar stars. Arthur coughed, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and discreetly set his glass on the nearest coffee table; he wanted a drink, not a dessert, and headed towards the bar in the hopes of snagging a gin and tonic or perhaps a bourbon. He chose to avoid Roderich and slid into a space at the far end of the counter, motioning to the barkeep and settling in for the long haul. He had already plowed through half a drink when he heard a soft cry of recognition from behind him and felt a hand on his shoulder; he turned to face Kiku and smiled enormously, reaching out to clap his old friend on the shoulder.

"And so we meet again, in much the same fashion, no less!" he cried. "Sit down, mate, sit down," he gestured to the empty stool beside him. "I assume you were at the premiere?"

Kiku nodded, folding his hands on top of the counter. "Indeed I was, Arthur-san. It was truly wonderful. You should be proud."

Arthur made a dismissive gesture. "Please, you exaggerate. Every single element of the film was absolutely necessary for its success," he gazed into his drink contentedly. "There was nothing dispensable, not in the least – it truly was a collaborative effort."

Kiku smiled. "Nonetheless, the script truly stands out," he paused. "It is no exaggeration to say that you have become a master of your craft, Arthur-san."

Arthur snorted. "Bollocks." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Alfred waving wildly at him, and sighed, deigning to give him a little nod in return just as Kiku laughed and patted him on the shoulder, leaning in slightly to tell him he was being ridiculous, the screenplay was positively fantastic, _that_ much was evident throughout the entire film. Arthur echoed his laughter and asked who was being the ridiculous one now? but kept one eye trained on Alfred, who suddenly had a very curious look in his eye (evident even from a distance) and was standing almost entirely still, just watching. Arthur raised an eyebrow at him pointedly and then turned back to Kiku, who was chattering eagerly about a new costuming project he had recently been assigned to.

"That's wonderful, Kiku, that really is," he said quite attentively, as if he had been listening devotedly the entire time. "I'm so happy for you."

"Yes, Arthur-san," Kiku glanced rather shyly at his hands. "I am happy, too. And…" he paused. "And, Arthur-san, what about you?"

Arthur felt his gaze flicker to Alfred, who had returned to chattering animatedly with a group of what were presumably admirers, and smiled softly, toying with his glass so that the bit of gin left in the bottom swirled against the sides.

"I…am happy," he said finally, almost as if it was a decision that he had just made (perhaps this was not so far from the truth). "I am, I think, Kiku. That's…" he allowed his gaze to slip towards Alfred one last time. "That's quite amazing, isn't it? All things considered."

Kiku nodded. "All things considered…yes, Arthur-san. Quite amazing."

Arthur reached out and put a hand gently on Kiku's shoulder, pressing affectionately and lifting his glass in a toast, which Kiku returned with a genuine smile (because he didn't have a drink), very slight but very real, nothing like the heartbreaking expression he had worn nearly ten years ago when Arthur had asked him how he perceived the world. However, this abruptly faded, and Kiku tilted his head to the side questioningly; Arthur glanced behind himself and saw that Alfred had suddenly materialized with a very curious look on his face - it was rather blank, something that Arthur couldn't quite define.

"Hello, Alfred-san," said Kiku, as politely as always, bobbing his head respectfully. "How wonderful it is to see you again. I would like to congratulate you on a fantastic job with -"

"Yeah, yeah," said Alfred shortly, and Arthur glanced up at him sharply, surprised by his rudeness – he was obnoxious, certainly, but usually so good-natured that such behavior didn't even seem possible of him. "Arthur," he put a hand on his shoulder, not meeting his eyes, expression still unfathomable. "May I speak with you for a second?"

Arthur blinked. "Sure."

A moment passed; Alfred raised an eyebrow. "In private?"

Arthur blinked again, set his drink down on the counter, gave his temporary goodbyes to Kiku along with a promise to return soon, and allowed Alfred to take his wrist and drag him through the crowd, too confused to protest, though he did try to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of the expression in Alfred's eyes (unsuccessfully). He couldn't even see where they were headed through the masses of people, only gaining some sense of his surroundings when they suddenly neared a wall and Alfred opened a door, pushing Arthur inside ahead of him. Arthur stumbled a bit and felt his back press up against something soft for an instant before he heard the door slam and felt powerful arms wrap around him, fierce and strong and crushingly possessive. He registered that he was being kissed harshly, without even the faintest trace of finesse, mouths open from the offset, the impact almost bruising against his lips. It was a long moment before Alfred moved to his neck, traveling hungrily up and down his throat, quite literally laving his tongue all over and biting rather too hard, making Arthur cry out in pain and irritation and, most of all, confusion.

"Alfred - " he could only manage those two syllables before he was being kissed again; Alfred's hands had fastened into the fabric of his jacket, making escape nearly impossible, and he was gasping by the time they had parted. "What are you - " Again, Alfred was suddenly and irrepressibly surrounding him, their teeth clacking together almost painfully. However, that time around, Arthur was more the wiser and submitted a little, let Alfred relax a bit, so that he finally managed to pull away, taking a gulp of air and pushing ineffectually at Alfred's shoulder as he made another dive for his throat.

"Alfred, this isn't like you!" A fourth kiss, wet and hot and open and forced. "I demand that you explain this to me!" A fifth. "Alfred I won't -" And one more; finally, Arthur pushed at Alfred forcefully and managed to hold him at arm's length, awarding him his finest glare.

"Alfred F. Jones, what the bloody hell has gotten into you?"

Alfred merely wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tuxedo, not a glimmer of remorse in his still-unreadable expression.

"I'll tell you later," he said, then straightened his bowtie, ran a hand through his hair, and was gone without another word, shutting the door behind him as he went. It was only then that Arthur realized that they were in the coat closet, of all things, that the softness he had felt against his back had been the blazers and jackets of the guests, that Alfred had just pushed him into a coat closet and given him a sizeable hickey near his Adam's apple for no apparent reason, and that Arthur now had to suffer through at least one more hour of socializing with the aforementioned hickey glaring at anyone who dared to attempt to make conversation with him. He groaned, sinking down slowly against the wall, and ran his hands through his hair to straighten it, because at one point Alfred had tangled his fingers into the back and messed it up almost beyond repair. He had to undo his bowtie altogether in order to look remotely presentable, though perhaps that was altogether a lost effort, seeing as it soon became miserably clear that his collar wouldn't reach even remotely high enough to cover the obviously-fresh red mark on his neck. Perhaps he could stay in the coat closet for the rest of the evening? He glanced at his watch; nearly eleven. They wouldn't be there for much more than an hour, would they? And then the party would be just getting started; he hated to be so rude to Kiku, but overall he was much safer in the closet - so to speak, he thought, grinning to himself at the irony as he rummaged through the coats and found a particularly luxurious one to spread on the floor, making himself as comfortable as possible. He was furious and confused with Alfred, but nonetheless he thought he could at least make good use of his time, and though he wished he had a dictionary or a thesaurus to help him along, he pushed his anger aside for the moment and settled in to think of that word.

* * *

><p>Alfred knew where to find Arthur, and they drove to his apartment together in silence, Arthur resolved not to speak until Alfred had attempted to explain his behavior, and Alfred, apparently, resolved not to speak at all. On their way out, they had managed to escape the cameras, so Elizaveta was being driven home by Francis, meaning that the stubborn silence between them was only broken by Alfred tapping his finger against the steering wheel and Arthur occasionally shifting in his seat, gazing determinedly out the window.<p>

They pulled into Alfred's driveway and got out, ascending the stairs without a word to each other. Alfred didn't look at Arthur as he pulled out his key and opened the door, merely stepped aside to allow him to pass first, knowing that he already knew where all the light switches were and where he could put his jacket. When Alfred clicked the door shut behind them and turned to face Arthur, he was met with a glare, and finally his expression melted into something palpable, perhaps a mixture of sheepishness and defiance.

"Arthur, I - "

"That behavior was absolutely inexcusable, Alfred." Really, Arthur was of half a mind to slap him; instead he concentrated on unknotting his bowtie. "I demand that you explain it to me this instant."

Alfred blinked and glanced at the floor with what Arthur certainly hoped was shame. "I didn't…er, well, you have to understand, Arthur, I - "

Arthur took a step forwards, his glare deepening. "You what? First of all, you were incredibly rude to Kiku. Second of all, you shoved me into a closet and gave me _this_," he gestured to the glaring red mark on the side of his neck, "meaning that I had to stay there for the rest of the bloody night, which in turn cause me to be even _ruder_ to Kiku, a beloved friend of mine who was expecting me to come back and finish our conversation. _And,_ as if this weren't already quite enough," he added, finally undoing his bowtie and letting it fall to the floor, taking another step forwards. "I didn't get to finish my drink."

Alfred frowned. "I'll make you another one."

"_Alfred._"

"Well, Arthur, you're not exactly letting me finish my explanation!"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine then. Finish. Then, I'll return to shouting at you."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Great, how encouraging. Still," he took a step forwards and grabbed Arthur's wrist; before he could properly react, Arthur was pulled flush against him and being kissed again, not quite as harshly as before but just as forcefully, Alfred's arms wrapping securely around his waist to deter any attempts at escape. After a long moment, Alfred broke his mouth away, and before Arthur could recover his breath enough to yell at him, he was hovering close to his ear, breath coming and going at the side of his neck.

"I don't want to wait anymore, Arthur," he whispered.

"Wait? What the…wait for what, exactly?"

"You said we'd cross the bridge when we came to it, but…" he paused for a moment. "I don't want to wait for that bridge."

"Bridge…I…Alfred, you're making absolutely no sense!"

And suddenly Arthur was pressed up against the wall, Alfred's hands on either side of his head, blue eyes trained on his, glittering fiercely behind his lopsided glasses.

"You're mine, Arthur," he said. "And I don't want to hide it anymore. I can't take it. Not when I have to watch you…" he wrinkled his nose, "_flirting _with old fuck-buddies of yours. I won't stand for it. I don't want to tip-toe around anymore."

Arthur gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then dissolved into laughter, actually doubling over against the wall as Alfred pulled back in surprise, his façade of dominance instantly melting away to be replaced by the sheepish and awkward and endearingly genuine overgrown boy that Arthur knew so well and really very much preferred.

"You…you actually have the nerve…" Arthur was overcome by another fit of giggles. "When I've had to watch you playing house with Elizaveta for months now...never saying a word in complaint…you actually have the nerve to be angry with _me _for having a polite conversation with a friend that I fucked once or twice _ten years ago?" _He dashed a tear from his eye, shoulders still trembling with laughter. "Jesus Christ, you're really amazing sometimes, Alfred."

"Arthur, I was being serious!" Alfred looked a little hurt; this was good, he was behaving like his usual self again.

"I know you were," chuckled Arthur, putting an affectionate hand on Alfred's shoulder. "And I'm both stunned and flattered by your idiocy. Really, Alfred," he shook him fondly. "You must like me a lot."

"I love you," said Alfred immediately, and Arthur's smile softened; Alfred took this as encouragement and stepped forwards, capturing Arthur's wrist in his. "I love you and I want the whole world to know it."

Arthur sighed. "It's hard to stay angry with you when you say things like that, you know."

Alfred smiled tentatively. "That's the point," then his expression sobered; he turned Arthur's wrist in his hand, gazing at it thoughtfully. "I meant what I said, though," he murmured. "I don't want to hide anymore."

"Neither do I, Alfred," admitted Arthur quietly. "But we all have to do things we don't want to. It's part of being an adult, yeah?"

"Well, being an adult sucks," muttered Alfred, pressing a kiss into his wrist, and Arthur smiled, stepping forwards and freeing his hand so that he could wrap his arms around Alfred's neck as his arms fell to his waist, no longer so fiercely possessive but warm and strong and secure.

"So I take it you forgive me?" Alfred murmured, meeting Arthur's gaze hopefully. "I am sorry."

Arthur pretended to consider this for moment. "I suppose," he said eventually. "You'll have to apologize to Kiku as well, though. Next time we see him."

"Sure," Alfred leaned forwards to kiss him; Arthur met him halfway and wound his fingers into his hair, glad that this time, there was no harshness or particular urgency to the kiss, nothing more than a simple sort of longing encouraging him to stretch up further, press deeper.

"Hey, Arthur," Alfred murmured when he had pulled away again. "Do you think we can…"

Arthur smirked and unwound himself from Alfred to take off his jacket, turning to hang it up and gasping when Alfred wrapped around him from behind, actually lifting him from the floor, and began to run towards the bedroom, more of dragging rather than carrying Arthur at all as he squawked in protest. Eventually, he was tossed onto the mattress, and sighed as Alfred pressed his mouth into the hollow of his throat, allowing him to work at his buttons, arching upwards slightly as his shirt came away at his shoulders and Alfred traveled downwards, over his collarbone, across his stomach, pausing to scatter kisses near his navel.

Alfred was smirking when he returned to kiss Arthur properly, hands going down and under to cradle his back and press them close even as Arthur fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, cursing at his cravat. Alfred merely chuckled against his ear and leaned back to undo it himself, and it was then that Arthur realized that Alfred was rather heavily straddling his hips; he propped himself up on his elbows somewhat dazedly, raising an eyebrow.

"Get off to let me flip over, would you?"

Alfred's smirk deepened. "Not tonight, Arthur… I'm still feeling a bit possessive," and then he was hovering over Arthur again, wearing nothing but his socks and trousers, eyes dancing. "Besides, it's been long enough, I reckon."

Arthur swallowed when he realized what Alfred was implying; nonetheless, he quirked a brow challengingly. "You really think you can get away with that? I'm not going down without a fight, you know."

Alfred chuckled and kissed him forcefully, opening his mouth and rumbling appreciatively at the back of his throat when Arthur couldn't help but respond enthusiastically, fingers tangling tight into his hair. Eventually Arthur broke his face away with a little huff of irritation, trying to ignore Alfred's self-satisfied grin, and instead focused on doing away with his trousers, curling his legs up to wrap around Alfred's waist so that he could get a better angle on the button.

"Eager, are we?" smirked Alfred, nudging a knee gently into his crotch, and Arthur pulled his waistband back and let it snap against his stomach vindictively before he managed to shove his trousers down to his ankles, tangling his legs tighter around his waist to bring him down so that he could kiss him again.

"Get on with it," he muttered eventually, sitting up so that he could finish dealing with his own clothes. Alfred wrapped around him from behind, trailing his mouth up and down his neck and shoulders, but when Arthur tried to press him into the mattress again he wound his arms fiercely around his waist and effortlessly flipped them, propping himself up on his elbows as he kissed Arthur all over, all along his throat and collarbone and chest and shoulders and cheeks and nose but very purposefully not his mouth, at least not until the end, at which point Arthur actually moaned and pressed himself into the kiss because he had been anticipating it for so long.

Really, when had Alfred gotten so clever? It was rather unnerving. Then again, Arthur thought to himself as Alfred kept on kissing him, perhaps it wasn't that Alfred had become particularly clever or masterful at all - in fact, he was actually a bit clumsy, slightly nervous despite his self-assured façade, stumbling a little bit over Arthur's body, hands sometimes too rough, mouth sometimes too wet and open, not a particularly deft or resourceful partner to say the least. But if this was the case, why did the slightest touch of his breath against his throat make Arthur gasp, why did he arch into the faintest brush of a fingertip, why could he helplessly do nothing but wind his fingers through Alfred's hair and his legs around his waist when their lips were scarcely touching?

Alfred leaned back for a moment and told Arthur that he loved him, whispering it ragged and breathless in his ear, and then Arthur understood. Francis could kiss and paw his way over him until he was dizzy, Kiku could grip at him and cling and gasp and grit his teeth, the other shadowy partners in his life could bring him to climaxes that shattered his vision and rendered him near-immobile between their sheets, but all of this was nothing compared to the sense of defenselessness that Alfred caused him, the way his stomach swooped and his pulse skyrocketed whenever he brushed Arthur's hair aside or took the trouble to kiss him on the cheek, the way he was cradled to his chest as though he were some sort of precious object, and even though Arthur might protest and say he wasn't made of porcelain, he found that he rather liked being treated like that, almost like a treasure (or so his mind dared to venture, though he blushed immediately at his own disgusting romanticism).

"Are you ready, Arthur?" asked Alfred eventually, and Arthur tried to think if anyone had ever once bothered to ask him that question as he nodded into Alfred's shoulder and took a deep breath, a precaution against pain which would never come because Alfred was gentle, almost too gentle, and very deliberate in going about it (perhaps because he knew how much stronger than Arthur he was), constantly asking him if he was alright, if it felt good, if he was going too fast or too hard, and every time Arthur merely shook his head against his shoulder and tried to wrap himself closer, digging his hands into Alfred's powerful back and hooking his heels over his trembling waist, whispering encouragement into his ear. Eventually, Alfred leaned up and kissed him desperately, and when they had parted took a low, shuddering breath against his chin.

"God, Arthur," he was biting his lip in concentration and Arthur realized that he had forgotten to take off his glasses; the frames were scarcely clinging to his nose, slick with sweat. "I'm close."

Arthur nodded soothingly, rhythmically, though he was gasping a bit himself. "M-me too," he managed, dipping his head to kiss Alfred on the forehead. "Keep going."

Alfred nodded and kissed him again, whispering that he loved him, he loved him, with Arthur sighing the same right back, and when it was over they merely lay there for a moment, chests heaving as they recovered their breath. Eventually, Arthur realized that Alfred was still wearing his socks, and started to laugh; after a few moments of confusion, Alfred registered this as well and dissolved into giggles, kicking them off before he returned to Arthur's side, wrapping him into his arms, still chuckling.

"Arthur, let's come out," he suggested, letting the words drop nonchalantly between rolls of laughter, and Arthur stiffened, turning over in his arms to look at him sharply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said," Alfred gripped his shoulders, now gazing at him quite seriously. "We finished the movie and I don't want to wait anymore."

Arthur sighed. "Alfred, I was hoping you would forget about all that. You're being quite selfish, you know," he reached out and ran his thumb across Alfred's cheek. "I'm right here, aren't I? You know it, and that's all that matters - there's nothing you're going to gain from telling anyone."

"But there _is,_" Alfred insisted, catching his wrist and planting a kiss on his pulse. "I want people to know. I guess you could say I'm proud, Arthur, and I want to tell the world."

"But you _can't_," repeated Arthur dryly, glancing away because he was faintly embarrassed by the sweetness of Alfred's words; when he dared to look again, however, he was dismayed to see a challenge glittering back at him. "Alfred," his voice dropped warningly. "I know that look in your eyes; this is serious. You're still in the public eye and you can't exactly go - "

He was silenced with a kiss, and then Alfred sprung from the bed, still without a stitch of clothing on, and turned towards the window, yanking back the curtains and allowing moonlight to spill into the otherwise-dark room.

"My name is Alfred F. Jones, and I am in love with Arthur Kirkland!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, the moon cutting strange shadows across his body. "Let anyone who dare protest it speak now or forever hold their peace!"

He was quite a comical sight, standing there completely naked in the moonlight, shouting at no one through the glass, and Arthur chuckled a little hysterically, faintly disgusted and amused and completely amazed all at the same time.

"Forever hold their peace? We're not getting married, Alfred."

Alfred glanced backwards to flash a grin at him; he cupped his hands over his mouth again. "And, in case there was any confusion, Arthur would like all of you to know that we are not getting married!" he paused. "That wouldn't be very legal anyways!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Thank goodness the window's closed."

Alfred jokingly (or so Arthur hoped) reached for the latch. "Want me to fix that?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"Oh, please, Alfred," Arthur smirked and opened his arms invitingly despite himself. "Stop making a fool of yourself and come here."

Alfred gazed at him for a moment, looking torn, and then finally abandoned his post in favor of clambering back between the sheets, encircling Arthur's waist with his arms and pressing his mouth into his hair.

"That's not very fair, Arthur," he murmured, "making me an offer I can't refuse."

Arthur chuckled, patting his chest affectionately.

"Yes, well, whatever it takes," he sighed; it was late, he was tired, and Alfred was very warm and secure around him. "We can stop with our midnight soliloquies and sleep now, yeah?"

He only vaguely felt Alfred's laughter rumble against his cheek as he shifted to put away his glasses and draw the sheets closer around them, returning his cheek to its comfortable position atop Arthur's head.

"Goodnight, Arthur," he whispered into his hair. Arthur smiled softly and managed to whisper the same back even though he was on the very brink of sleep, exhausted not only by the ordeal of the day but by the last six months, just sort of realizing then that it was all really over and there he was, falling asleep in his boyfriend's arms after work, really quite the domestic picture, but he supposed that was alright, after all, perfectly fine.

* * *

><p>He woke with the morning sun spilling in through the window (because Alfred had forgotten to draw the curtains back after his glassed-in audience with the entire city of Los Angeles), pale and clear, illuminating the room and casting little shadows into the pockets of the sheets and the contours of the tired but happy expression on Alfred's face: he was still asleep, but Arthur could see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the peaceful half-smile on his mouth, and unconsciously reached out to run his thumb across his cheek, smiling gently. Eventually, Alfred stirred, groaned, and caught Arthur's hand in his to get him to stop.<p>

"S'early, Arthur, stop touching me and go back to sleep."

Arthur chuckled. "I'm not the fool who left the curtains open last night."

Alfred shot him a reproachful look, but eventually got up and pulled the curtains back into place, casting the room into a more comfortable state of semi-darkness. He returned to the bed rubbing at his eyes and yawning, and bundled Arthur into his arms under the pretense that _he _had made Alfred get up in the first place and, therefore, the least he could do was offer him a little cuddling. Arthur protested only halfheartedly, eventually surrendering and resting his cheek against Alfred's chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat despite himself. They were quiet for a long time, and then Alfred suddenly shifted, hooked his thumb beneath Arthur's chin, and met his gaze very seriously.

"Time's up, Artie," he said. "I want my word."

Arthur smiled slowly, savoring the moment, because this time he had thought ahead, he had found what he was looking for, and he knew it was perfect, that there was nothing Alfred could say to the contrary.

"Well?" Alfred said after a while, raising a brow. "Out with it."

Arthur reached up to touch Alfred's cheek, kissed him briefly on the mouth, and then pulled away, sighing as he went: "Blank. The world as my script sees it is blank."

Alfred gazed at him for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Explain," he said finally.

Arthur blinked. "Blank, Alfred, what else is there to say? There is merely nothing - nothing of value, nothing of goodness, nothing worth hanging on for. Even so…" he paused, "this is not to say that there is no possibility of there being _something. _The world is blank, blank like an empty artist's canvas, desolate but not unalterable, if you will. A miserable world, but yours to make better," he smirked, "if you're of any skill as a painter, that is."

Alfred was silent for a time, then he took Arthur's face in his hands, letting the silence linger for one moment more.

"God, I love you, Arthur," he said finally. "You damn cynic, you corrupt, lonely, isolated, lost, eccentric, inconstant, _cynical _man," he seemed almost angry. "What gives you the right to say something so wonderful?" Then he kissed him, almost desperately. "How can you be a _hopeful _cynic? It's a contradiction. It's impossible. And yet," he pulled back, still cupping Arthur's face in his hands. "You've managed it. You never cease to amaze me. And you're right, of course," suddenly his face was full of tenderness, "the world is blank. It's up to us to give it color. And what's more, Arthur…" he paused, and smiled breathlessly, "you've rediscovered the old spirit of film, and not only that, you've found the old spirit of America. The American Dream, it's the quest for making something from nothing, for pouring color onto the canvas. You're brilliant, Arthur, you're fucking brilliant sometimes," he pressed their foreheads together, hands still against Arthur's face. "And I love you more than you can understand."

Arthur met him halfway in the kiss that followed, reaching up and securing his hands in his hair and opening his mouth and simply allowing himself to be overwhelmed by everything, by their success, by the end of it all, by Alfred, surrounding him, filling every aspect of his perception, a new and radiant and exhilarating and exasperating shade of color that had so far done nothing but challenge the spectrum Arthur had always known. When they parted, Arthur left his eyes closed for a long moment, then kissed Alfred on the line of his jaw, whispered that he loved him too, and pressed his face back into his shoulder, considering something. Finally, he came to a conclusion, propped himself up on his elbow, and took Alfred's chin in one hand, meeting his gaze seriously.

"Look, Alfred," he bit down on his lower lip for a moment before he continued. "About what you've been insisting on over these past few days…I can't tell you when, I can't tell you how, probably a long time from now, probably in some backwards way, knowing us, but I can promise you…one day, we'll tell the world, and we'll be proud. Not now, maybe not even soon, but…one day. You have my word."

Alfred gazed back at him for a moment, then leaned forwards to kiss him softly, cradling the back of his neck in his palm.

"Thank you, Arthur," he murmured against his mouth. "For everything."

"Don't be a fool, Alfred," whispered Arthur. "You know it's no trouble."

Alfred chuckled. "I love you, Arthur," he murmured. "So don't think I'm going to go letting you forget about your promise. And rest assured that I'll fight with everything I've got to make it sooner rather than later."

Arthur smiled fondly, too fondly, far too fondly, and kissed Alfred on the tip of his nose.

"I love you, too, you fool," he whispered. "And keep dreaming."

* * *

><p>ASDFGHJKL<p>

IT'S OVER (except for the epilogue).

And DAYum, guuuurl, would you look at that word count! That's like, a novel! *headdesk* WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE, I DON'T EVEN…

Bit of translation:

_Una verdadera maestro obra _= a true masterpiece

_claro = _sure, of course, etcetera

_Già, Romanino*, dobbiamo partire, no ? _now, Romano, we should go, right?

*-_ino _is a diminutive suffix in Italian; it makes the name more…adorable, for lack of better word.

_Qué cruel eres conmigo = _how cruel you are to me.

_Andiamo, vamos _= _let's go _in Italian and Spanish, respectively. The joke here is that Antonio keeps trying to get Romano to use different languages, and he's like: fuck off, bastard, speak English. Ahaha. Linguistics jokes. So funny, u gaiz.

Thank you all SO MUCH for putting up with me and leaving your lovely comments and being all-around the most fantastic readers anyone ever could ask for. I've had such a great time writing this that I can only hope you've enjoyed it half as much. Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and stay tuned for the epilogue next week. ^^


	11. Epilogue

For once, I've got no notes with which to bore you guys.

Enjoy. ^^

* * *

><p><em>October<em>

Elizaveta called Alfred and announced that she had decided, and the next day they went to a coffee shop together and broke up spectacularly over cappuccinos. Upon hearing the tabloids recount the spectacle, Arthur had to admit that it seemed their acting skills had become truly formidable – apparently, the show had been complete with screaming, accusations, tears, spilt coffee, and a broken mug, a last act which Alfred admitted might have been a little over the top but garnered a reaction from the general public that was _totally worth _what he had to pay to replace it.

_November _

Elizaveta allowed several weeks to pass before she put her decision into affect; as soon as these had come and gone, she woke up one morning, donned her red silk scarf (ever since _Keep Dreaming, America _had premiered, this had become something of an iconic symbol of hers), prettied up her hair, put on a touch of lipstick and perfume, and headed to World Series Entertainment, punctuating her every step with the sharp clack of her high heels. Antonio was vacationing in Spain with Romano, so she knew Gilbert would be alone, which was exactly how she wanted him – Elizaveta was a strong woman to say the least, but despite her chosen profession, she wasn't much for public spectacles that had to do with her personal matters.

She got into the elevator and took it to the top floor, so intent upon her goal that she scarcely spared the slightest nod to anyone else who entered and tried to make conversation. Finally, the doors chimed open and she marched down the hallway, heels ringing out against the tile, the sound mingling with the low thud of heavy metal music. She smiled – the sound wasn't as sweet as classical, but she found that it fitted the rhythm of her footsteps and matched the pace of her heart.

She didn't bother to knock, of course, merely threw open the door, went over to the stereo, and snapped the music off, causing Gilbert to spring suddenly awake and provoking a little chorus of chirping from the chicks that had been nestled near his body. Elizaveta sighed, picking her way around the little yellow bodies, and stood before Gilbert, who was still splayed awkwardly across his couch, watching her with his mouth slightly ajar, silver hair ruffled and shirt wrinkled and tie hanging loosely around his neck.

"E-Elizaveta," he finally stuttered, seeming to make some sort of effort to sit up. "T-to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Elizaveta had no plans to dally.

"Remember my thing with Alfred?"

"Your…" Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "Yes."

"It was all a hoax. I was his beard, basically. He's been fucking Arthur for months now," she shrugged. "To be frank, there was so much sexual tension between them all the time that I can't believe the tabloids didn't pick up on it. Actually, I can't believe _you _didn't pick up on it, Gil," she chuckled fondly. "What with all the times somebody's caught them in the elevator or on the stairs around here. Come to think of it, half the studio's known forever," she paused; Gilbert's mouth was still hanging slightly ajar. "So anyways, there was nothing between us, which means you can stop pining now."

After a moment more of stunned silence, Gilbert started to grin.

"Ha! I _so _knew that there was somethin' going on between them! Arthur kept looking at him all funny all the time, and there was this one thing at the premiere after party…I thought I was so drunk I was seeing things, but I guess…I guess I wasn't…" he paused, his brow furrowing, then he blushed. "H-hold on, Elizaveta…who ever said anything about pining? I haven't been pining! I'd be too awesome to _pine _even if there were a good reason to!"

Elizaveta quirked a brow.

"Oh really? No good reason? That's a shame," she sighed, glancing at her nails. "And to think I had come all the way here to announce that I've chosen you."

Gilbert swallowed audibly, his eyes widening for a moment before they narrowed. "Hey, who do you think you are anyways, Elizaveta? I mean, sure, you're the most beautiful and talented and smart and strong girl I've ever met, and now you're really famous, but still, you can't just walk up to a guy after playing him for a while and announce that you've decided to deign to award him the privilege of going out with you," he paused. "Dammit, I sound like some stupid kid in junior high. Look, what I'm trying to say is, you shouldn't make assumptions like that. It's obnoxious and self-assured and it really doesn't suit you."

Elizaveta was quiet for a moment, then she smiled and threw her arms around Gilbert's neck. He stiffened beneath her, and she heard him take a little intake of breath, but otherwise he didn't respond, merely sort of rested his chin on her shoulder as if he were tolerating her, that and nothing more.

"This is what I love about you, Gilbert," she told him, "you're such a challenge. I have to apologize; I've been a little bit tricky. Of course I don't expect you to have been pining or anything, and to be honest, I don't think I'd really want to be with someone who didn't protest against my barging in here and stuff. I guess I was testing you a little bit, which isn't very nice either, but still, you should know that I think you're cool, Gilbert, and interesting and shit like that. Sorry," she sighed. "I'm not very eloquent. I've always been better when I'm pretending."

Gilbert was quiet for a long moment.

"Sure, I'm cool," he said finally. "I mean, I'm awesome. I'm the most awesome there ever was," another long pause, "but that doesn't mean…I don't think…look, maybe I'm not what you need, Elizaveta."

"And since when is that something for you to decide?"

"I-it's not! Look, Eliza, I'm just saying…you see, I'm not very…reliable. I throw bitchin' parties and I'm a bigshot in the movie business and I'm a total beast in the sack, but otherwise…there's really not all that much…to be said. Whereas with you," she felt his chin shift slightly against her shoulder. "Who knows where life will take you, and that's awesome, and you don't need somebody like me hanging around to keep that from happening."

Elizaveta rolled her eyes, pulled back from the embrace, took Gilbert's tie in her hand, and kissed him, letting it last only for a few seconds (during which he was too surprised to respond) before she pulled away and smiled at him.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much."

Gilbert blinked at her almost warily.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely positive. If you'll have me, that is."

And finally, Gilbert smiled, hooking his finger beneath her chin to tilt her face and kiss her again, and in the moment before their lips met he told her that if he wouldn't, he was the biggest fool in the world.

_December_

Arthur had never celebrated Christmas the _American Way _before, and Alfred saw this as something that required immediate remedy at the hands of miles of Christmas lights, pounds of cookie dough, a tree that wouldn't even fit through the door of his apartment, and veritable gallons of eggnog - though, admittedly, Arthur didn't necessarily disapprove of this last measure.

And all this excitement culminated on Christmas Eve, when they accidentally decided to move in together. If Arthur had written the script, it might have looked a little something like this:

_Francis – (taking a sip of wine) My dear Alfred, I must confess that your apartment is simply lovely, as is your hospitality. It has been far too long since I experienced such a warm and welcoming household. Arthur is absolutely unbearable as a roommate, I'm afraid._

_Alfred – Well shucks, Francis, thanks, I'm - _

_Arthur – I most certainly am not. If you would act like a decent human being and actually clean up your things, I wouldn't have to pester you so much. _

_Francis – I've offered before and I'll offer again: if it bothers you so, _mon ami, _you are free to move out whenever you wish. _

_Arthur – If it would please you, _ma cherie, _perhaps I will. _

_Francis – Then by all means,_ _do. But I must know, _ma femme, _where do you plan on going?_

_Arthur – (falling silent)_

_Alfred – (trying to disguise hope) You could always crash here. _

_(Elizaveta puts down her fork and knife, coming immediately to attention) _

_Arthur – (regaining composure) Y-yes, I suppose I could. If I bother you so terribly much, Francis, I'll simply leave and move in with Alfred. (glances at Alfred) If it wouldn't be any trouble, of course. _

_Alfred – No, no, of course not! _

_Francis – (smirking, exchanging a glance with Elizaveta) Then what are you waiting for, Arthur?_

_Arthur – (still oblivious) Shut up, frog. It's settled. As long as you're sure I won't be a bother, Alfred, I'll start packing my stuff in a few days._

_Alfred – (disbelieving) Sounds great, I'll be happy to have you. _

_Francis – Well, you've certainly shown me up, Arthur. _

_Arthur – I'm aware. _

_(The room is quiet for a moment; Francis takes another sip of his wine, Alfred continues quietly eating, Elizaveta bites down on her knuckle, and Arthur suddenly drops his knife with a clatter)_

_Arthur – (blushing) I have to use the restroom. (Exit)_

_(Another moment of silence. Eventually, all burst out laughing. End scene.)_

_January _

The New Year came and went, they all waited with baited breath, and finally, the nominations began to arrive. Alfred clutched the phone with trembling hands, Arthur was halfway through congratulating him when his own cell went off in his pocket, Elizaveta called a few minutes later bubbling over with excitement, and they were just wrapping up their conversation when another call came in and Francis was nearly weeping with joy on the other line.

_Best Actor_

_Best Actress in a supporting role_

_Best Director_

_Best Film _

_Best Screenplay_

Arthur treated each title like a treasure, and so did Alfred, though later that night as they lay between the sheets, Arthur rolled over in his arms and saw a worried little crease between his brows. He asked what was the matter, and Alfred glanced at him, smiling almost apologetically.

"I know I'm not supposed to pester you about this, Arthur," he murmured, reaching down to play with Arthur's fingers as he spoke, "but getting the nominations reminded me of how long it's been, and I…well, I was just thinking…when are we going to…I mean, Elizaveta's been with Gilbert for a while now, so when is it going to be alright…that we…that we…"

Arthur sighed, having long since realized what Alfred was trying to ask. "I just…I know that I promised you, Alfred, and I won't forget…it's only…"

"You're a private man," said Alfred dully, putting Arthur's hand back on his thigh. Arthur sighed, winding their fingers together before Alfred could pull his hand away again.

"Alfred, please don't look like that. You know I…you know that's it not…" he bit his lower lip. "It's not something that's easy for me."

"I know," Alfred paused. "But sometimes it just feels like…like…" he looked away. "Like, I don't know, you're…like you're _ashamed _or something."

"I'm not," Arthur leaned forwards and gripped Alfred's chin in his hand. "I am not ashamed of anything. Not of myself, not of you, not of us," he leaned forwards and kissed him. "Please believe me, Alfred."

Alfred said he did, but he wouldn't stop staring at the sheets, and Arthur got the feeling that he wasn't entirely convinced.

_February_

The last Oscars ceremony Hollywood would ever hold came a little earlier than usual that year, and before Arthur knew it he was donning a tuxedo and slipping into a limousine on his way to the red carpet all over again, except this time around he traveled with Alfred and Francis because Elizaveta wanted to show off her newly-acquired Gilbert to the fullest extent possible. The entire process was somewhat dreamy, just a blur of flashing cameras and chattering voices and mountains of tulle and lace and silk and gold and too many questions even though hardly anyone was interested in Arthur or Francis at all, instead swarming Alfred, brimming with inquiries regarding his breakup, his plans for the future, his thoughts on his nomination, everything, everything, everything, and Arthur was very glad indeed when he could finally take his seat and lean back as the ceremonies began.

Alfred lost best actor, and that was perfectly alright because he hadn't been expecting to win anyways; despite his popularity, he would have been too fresh and inexperienced even if there weren't more talented nominees. When Elizaveta won best actress in a supporting role, she could scarcely speak she was so overcome and more of dithered on about her fledgling relationship with Gilbert than anything else, though she did manage to thank Arthur and Francis and Alfred at the very end of her speech before she dissolved entirely into tears. Though Francis was a little peeved to lose both best film and best director, he understood that they didn't really deserve either, especially not from an American audience.

When they called Arthur's name for best screenplay, he supposed he must have stood up and walked down the aisle to receive his statue, but the first thing he was truly conscious of was standing in front of the podium holding the little golden figure in both hands, completely lost for words. He swallowed, scanning the audience a little frantically, and then caught sight of Alfred, saw him grinning and giving him a thumbs up, and coughed, finding his voice again at last.

"What an ironic situation this is," he said, and was gratified that his voice didn't tremble or threaten to break. "Here I am, receiving the most enormous possible honor for my writing…and I am entirely lost for words." The audience rumbled appreciatively and Arthur felt his composure come rushing back.

"I suppose that the natural course of action to take is to give out my thank yous first and foremost," he paused, gazing for a moment at his gold figurine, running his thumb along its side disbelievingly. "Thank you to the Academy for bestowing such an incredible honor upon me. Thank you to World Series Entertainment for taking a handful of foreigners on and helping them along to moderate glory. Thank you, America, for receiving what may not have been the most…well, let's just come out say it, the most _tactful _script," at this the audience rumbled again, "with a grace of which the world sometimes forgets you are capable. And thank you," his voice softened, "to Francis and Elizaveta, my best friends in the world, the pillars without which I cannot stand, the two people who showed me how to live and successfully made my silly pipedream a reality. And lastly," he paused, gazed out into the audience again, and swallowed. "Well, lastly, there is a gratitude in my heart that I cannot hope to express with mere words. I…I never would have thought...I never would have thought that in making this movie, I would come across something that would be…" his voice fell, "…more precious than this, than this honor, than being here today and being acknowledged by such a grand empire of film in her final moments. No, the idea wouldn't have crossed my mind. But then again, I've never been one to believe in such things," he paused. "But I digress - there is only one way that I could ever hope of expressing my gratitude, and I…I am just now realizing that it must be done here and now, and it is rather frightening me but…well, before I explain myself further, I believe it should be known," he paused, then continued matter-of-factly, "that I am gay. But I doubt you are terribly surprised, or that you care terribly much. I'm no celebrity, after all. However…"

He paused for a long moment, watching the audience and being watched right back.

"Alfred. Because most of the time you are a bother to me, I will _never_ tell you this again, so listen well. I cannot hope to thank you for what you have done for me. I know all too well how you love to play these sorts of games, but I am afraid I will never find the right word to express my gratitude. So, I will settle for the next best thing," he looked away from the audience, speaking to the floor.

"Alfred, I love you. Ladies and gentleman, I love Alfred F. Jones. I have loved him for a while now and I don't intend to stop. This is to say that we've - "

Arthur never finished his sentence because, while he had been staring at his feet, Alfred had gotten up and hurried to the stage, and now he was taking the statue from Arthur's hands and kissing him, practically dipping him to the floor right in front of everyone, and it was all Arthur could do to throw his arms around his neck and hope they wouldn't fall.

_March_

It had been so long since Arthur had been homesick that he had nearly forgotten how to identify the feeling. However, as the hubbub surrounding the film (and his impromptu display) began to die down, likewise a persistent tiredness began to start up in his bones, and likewise Los Angeles began to seem more like a ruin than ever before, the little glitter she had left growing steadily duller and more tarnished, losing its value even as an antique.

When Arthur spoke with Francis and Elizaveta about this, he found that they shared his outlook, and when he admitted himself to Alfred, he discovered that there was little opposition to leaving at all. It wasn't, Alfred explained, that he relished the idea of leaving America, but if they were to further pursue their budding careers he had to admit that it would be best for them to get out while they were still able so that they could establish themselves internationally. And he was not the only one who shared in this sentiment – in fact, despite all the time they had managed to waste in Los Angeles, Gilbert and Antonio seemed suddenly tired as well, and as of late they had started meeting with Francis in secret, discussing things that they claimed were highly confidential and therefore were not to be divulged, even to the closest of friends.

Finally, Francis revealed his grand announcement: as of very soon, the Hollywood corporation known as World Series Entertainment would cease to exist. It would be replaced by the internationally oriented Bad Friends Trio Productions, a three-man film studio and partnership which Francis had just created with Gilbert and Antonio, and on which he would serve as senior director. This invitation, of course, was extended to Elizaveta, Alfred, and Arthur as well, with regards to their respective positions, and though at first Elizaveta was absolutely livid with Gilbert for not telling her about all this, she eventually calmed down enough to be happy and accept the job.

The headquarters of the new corporation would most likely be established in Paris, and Arthur had a little trouble swallowing this. In addition, Alfred wasn't sure that he wanted to be tied down to one studio in particular. So, after they had given much thought to the matter, they opted out of signing themselves away to a handful of contracts and instead chose to establish their relationship with the new corporation as the same sort of friendship they had always enjoyed amongst their own production team.

And in the end, this proved to be the perfect decision. For better or for worse, Antonio had Romano. For the time being, Elizaveta had Gilbert. Francis had his director's chair and his megaphone and the city he loved more than anything in the world. And Alfred had Arthur, and Arthur had Alfred, and together they had the warmth of each other's arms, no obligations, and the whole world stretched before them like a blank canvas, just waiting to be sculpted with words and filled in with the thick brushstrokes of talk and kisses and shouts and whispers and moans and laughter, all in the most brilliant colors imaginable.

* * *

><p>DERP<p>

I feel exceptionally stupid writing sentences like that.

OH WELL

If anyone is upset about Francis being alone, feel free to imagine him eventually hooking up with hipster!Matt. To be honest, I was planning on adding a little Franada to this story anyways, but...I got tired. :/

And that's all there is to be said for _Keep Dreaming, America_. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for coming along on the ride; it's been truly fantastic and I love you all.

A brief note regarding the future:

I am planning a USUK three-shot (for the canon) that could kinda sorta be perceived as a companion to this fic is you really _really _squinted. The similarities they share would be the post-modern day setting, wordplay as an underlying concept, and the theme of America's downfall as a world power. Basically, I want to go really in-depth with the whole idea of Alfred's collapse, therefore it should be chock full of such things as angst, comfort, historical references and flashbacks galore, etcetera.

(Also, I may recycle tiny bits of the dialogue from this fic)

(And I only just finished the rough plot, lololol)

(So expect a few oneshots – USUK and others - in between now and then)

Anyways.

Thank you again (so much), and I'll see you all next time around.

-worldaccordingtofangirls


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